THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  LION'S  SHARE 

ARNOLD    BENNETT 


By    ARNOLD    BENNETT 


NOVELS 

THE  lion's  share 

THESE  TWAIN 

CLAYHANGER 

HILDA  LESSWAYS 

THE  OLD  wives'  TALE 

DENRY  THE  AUDACIOUS 

THE  OLD  ADAM 

HELEN  WITH  THE  HIGH  HAND 

THE  MATADOR  OF  THE  FIVE  TOWNS 

THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

BURIED  ALIVE 

A  GREAT  MAN 

LEONORA 

WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

A  MAN  FROM  THE  NORTH 

ANNA  OF  THE  FIVE  TOWNS 

THE  GLIMPSE 

THE  CITY  OF  PLEASURE 

THE  GRAND  BABYLON  HOTEL 

HUGO 

THE  GATES  OF  WRATH 

POCKET  PHILOSOPHIES 

THE  author's  CRAFT 

MARRIED  LIFE 

FRIENDSHIP  AND  HAPPINESS 

HOW  TO  LIVE  ON  24  HOURS  A  DAY 

THE  HUMAN  MACHINE 

LITERARY  TASTE 

MENTAL  EFFICIENCY 

PLAYS 

THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 
CUPID  AND  COMMONSENSE 
WHAT  THE  PUBLIC  WANTS 
POLITE  FARCES 
THE  HONEYMOON 
IN  COLLABORATION  WITH  EDWARD  KNOBLAUCH 
MILESTONES 

MISCELLANEOUS 

paris  nights 

the  truth  about  an  author 

liberty! 

OVER  there:  WAR  SCENES 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


THE 

LION'S  SHARE 


BY 

ARNOLD  BENNETT 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  OLD  WIVES'  TALE,"  "CLAYHANGER," 

"HILDA  LESSWAYS,"  "THESE  TWAIN," 

ETC..  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1916, 
Bt  George  H.  Dohan  Company 


PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 
COPYRIGHT,  1915,  1916,  BY    THE   METROPOLITAN    MAGAZINE    COMPANY 


V^o 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I. 

Miss  Ixgate,  and  the  Yacht  . 

11 

11. 

The   Thief's  Plan  Wrecked   . 

S4* 

III. 

The   Legacy      .         .         .         .         . 

36 

IV. 

Mr.  Foulger     .          .         .         .         . 

48 

V. 

The   Dead   Hand 

55 

VI. 

The  Young  Widow  .          .         .         . 

59 

VII. 

The    Cigarette    Girl 

63 

VIII. 

Exploitation   of  Widowhood    . 

76 

IX. 

Life  in  Paris   .          .         .         .         . 

81 

X. 

Fancy   Dress    .         .          .         .         . 

92 

XI. 

A  Political  Refugee 

103 

XII. 

Widowhood  in  the  Studio 

113 

XIII. 

The   Swoon       .          .          .         .         , 

120 

XIV. 

Miss  Ingate  Points  Oct  the  Door 

126 

XV. 

The  Right  Bank     . 

.     134, 

XVI. 

Robes         ..... 

145 

XVII. 

Soiree        ..... 

.     149 

XVIII. 

A   Decision       .... 

.     156 

XIX. 

The  Boudoir    .... 

.     163 

XX. 

Paget    Gardens         .          .         .         . 

.     170 

XXI. 

Jane          ..... 

.     176 

611590 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAQK 

XXII.  The    Detective  .         .  .     '    .         .  183 

XXIII.  The    Bute    City 191 

XXIV.  The   Spatts 209 

XXV.  The    Mute        . 219 

XXVI.  Nocturne  .......  227 

XXVII.  In   the   Garden 232 

XXVIII.  Encounter         .......  244 

XXIX.  Flight 249 

XXX.  Ariadne    ........  255 

XXXI.  The  Nostrum 268 

XXXII.  By  the  Binnacle    .         .         .         .         .        .  274 

XXXIII.  Aguilar's   Double   Life    .....  291 

XXXIV.  The    Tank-Room 303 

XXXV.  The  Third  Sort  of  "Woman    .  .  .         .  318 

XXXVI.  In  the  Dinghy 32i 

XXXVII.  Afloat      .  . 332 

XXXVIII.  In  the  Universe 338 

XXXIX.  The    Imminent   Drive      .      ,    .  .         .         .  351 

XL.  Genius   at   Bay        ......  365 

XLI.  Financial  News 373 

XLII.  Interval  .......  381 

XLIIL  Entr'acte 390 

XLIV.  End  of  the  Concert       .....  399 

XLV.  Strange   Result  of  a  Quarrel         .         .         .  404 

XLVI.  An  Epilogue    .......  415 


THE  LION'S  SHARE 


THE  LION'S  SHARE 

CHAPTER  I 

MISS    INGATE,    AND    THE    YACHT 

AuDEEY  had  just  closed  the  safe  in  her  father's 
study  when  she  was  startled  by  a  slight  noise.  She 
turned  like  a  defensive  animal  to  face  danger.  It  had 
indeed  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  rather  like  an 
animal  in  captivity,  and  she  found  a  bitter  pleasure 
in  the  idea,  though  it  was  not  at  all  original. 

"And  Flank  Hall  is  my  Zoo!"  she  had  said.  (Not 
that  she  had  ever  seen  the  Zoological  Gardens,  or  vis- 
ited London.) 

She  was  lithe ;  she  moved  with  charm.  Her  short, 
plain  blue  serge  walking-frock  disclosed  the  form  of 
her  limbs  and  left  them  free,  and  it  made  her  look 
younger  even  than  she  was.  Its  simplicity  suited  her 
gestures  and  took  grace  from  them.  But  she  wore  the 
old  thing  without  the  least  interest  in  it — almost  un- 
consciously. She  had  none  of  the  preoccupations  caused 
by  the  paraphernalia  of  existence.  She  scarcely  knew 
what  it  was  to  own.  She  was  aware  only  of  her  body 
and  her  soul.  Beyond  these  her  possessions  were  so 
few,  so  mean,  so  unimportant,  that  she  might  have 
carried  them  to  the  grave  and  into  heaven  without 
protest  from  the  authorities  earthly  or  celestial. 

The  slight  noise  was  due  to  the  door  of  the  study, 
which  great  age  had  distorted  and  bereft  of  sense,  and 

11 


12  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

in  fact  almost  unhinged.  It  unlatched  itself,  paused, 
and  then  calmly  but  firmly  swung  wide  open.  When  it 
could  swing  no  further  it  shook,  vibrating  into  repose. 

Audrey  condemned  the  door  for  a  senile  lunatic, 
and  herself  for  a  poltroon.  She  became  defiant  of 
peril,  until  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  stair  beyond 
the  door  threw  her  back  into  alarm.  But  when  the 
figure  of  Miss  Ingate  appeared  in  the  doorway  she  was 
definitely  reassured,  to  the  point  of  disdain.  All  her 
facial  expression  said:    "It's  only  Miss  Ingate." 

And  yet  Miss  Ingate  was  not  a  negligible  woman. 
Her  untidy  hair  was  greying;  she  was  stout,  she  was 
fifty;  she  was  plain;  she  had  not  elegance;  her  accent 
and  turns  of  speech  were  noticeably  those  of  Essex. 
But  she  had  a  magnificent  pale  forehead;  the  eyes  be- 
neath it  sparkled  with  energy,  inquisitiveness,  and  sa- 
gacity; and  the  mouth  beneath  the  eyes  showed  by  its 
sardonic  dropping  corners  that  she  had  come  to  a 
settled  cheerful  conclusion  about  human  nature,  and 
that  the  conclusion  was  not  flattering.  Miss  Ingate 
was  a  Guardian  of  the  Poor,  and  the  Local  Representa- 
tive of  the  Soldiers'  and  Sailors'  Families  Association. 
She  had  studied  intimately  the  needy  and  the  rich  and 
the  middling.  She  was  charitable  without  illusions ; 
and,  while  adhering  to  every  social  convention,  she 
did  so  with  a  toleration  pleasantly  contemptuous ;  in 
her  heart  she  had  no  mercy  for  snobs  of  any  kind, 
though,  unfortunately,  she  was  at  times  absurdly  in- 
timidated by  them — at  other  times  she  was  not. 

To  the  west,  within  a  radius  of  twelve  miles,  she 
knew  everybody  and  everybody  knew  her;  to  the  east 
her  fame  was  bounded  only  by  the  regardless  sea. 
She  and  her  ancestors  had  lived  in  the  village  of  Moze 
as  long  as  even  Mr.  Mathew  Moze  and  his  ancestors. 
In  the  village,  and  to  the  village,  she  was  Miss  Ingate, 


MISS  INGATE,  AND  THE  YACHT         13 


a  natural  phenomenon,  like  the  He  of  the  land  and  the 
river  Moze.  Her  opinions  offended  nobody,  not  Mr. 
Moze  himself — she  was  Miss  Ingate.  She  was  laughed 
at,  beloved,  and  respected.  Her  sagacity  had  one  flaw, 
and  the  flaw  sprang  from  her  sincere  conviction  that 
human  nature  in  that  corner  of  Essex,  which  she  under- 
stood so  profoundly,  and  where  she  was  so  perfectly 
at  home,  was  diff'erent  from,  and  more  fondly  foolish 
than,  human  nature  in  any  other  part  of  the  world. 
She  could  not  believe  that  distant  populations  could 
be  at  once  so  pathetically  and  so  naughtily  human  as 
the  population  in  and  around  Moze. 

If  Audrey  disdained  Miss  Ingate,  it  was  only  because 
Miss  Ingate  was  neither  young  nor  fair  nor  the  pro- 
prietress of  some  man,  and  because  people  made  out 
that  she  was  peculiar.  In  some  respects  Audrey  looked 
upon  Miss  Ingate  as  a  lifebelt,  as  the  speck  of  light 
at  the  end  of  a  tunnel,  as  the  enigmatic  smile  which 
glimmers  always  in  the  frown  of  destiny. 

"Well?"  cried  Miss  Ingate  in  her  rather  shrill  voice, 
grinning  sardonically,  with  the  corners  of  her  lips 
still  lower  than  usual  in  anticipatory  sarcasm.  It  was 
as  if  she  had  said:  "You  cannot  surprise  me  by  any 
narrative  of  imbecility  or  turpitude  or  bathos.  All 
the  same  I  am  dying  to  hear  the  latest  eccentricity  of 
this   village." 

"Well.''"  parried  Audrey,  holding  one  hand  behind 
her. 

They  did  not  shake  hands.  People  who  call  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning  cannot  expect  to  have  their 
hands  shaken.  Miss  Ingate  certainly  expected  noth- 
ing of  the  sort.  She  had  the  freedom  of  Flank  Hall, 
as  of  scores  of  other  houses,  at  all  times  of  day.  Serv- 
ants opened  front-doors  for  her  with  a  careless  smile, 
and  having  shut  front-doors  they  left  her  loose,  like  a 


14  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

familiar  cat,  to  find  what  she  wanted.  They  seldom 
"showed"  her  into  any  room,  nor  did  they  dream  of 
acting  before  her  the  unconvincing  comedy  of  going  to 
"see"  whether  masters  or  mistresses  were  out  or  in. 

"Where's  your  mother.?"  asked  Miss  Ingate  idly, 
quite  sure  that  interesting  divulgations  would  come, 
and  quite  content  to  wait  for  them.  She  had  been  out 
of  the  village  for  over  a  week. 

"Mother's  taking  her  Acetyl  Salicylic,"  Audrey  an- 
swered, coming  to  the  door  of  the  study. 

This  meant  merely  that  Mrs.  Moze  had  a  customary 
attack  of  the  neuralgia  for  which  tlie  district  is  justly 
renowned  among  strangers. 

"Oh !"  murmured  Miss  Ingate  callously.  Mrs.  Moze, 
though  she  had  lived  in  the  district  for  twenty-five 
years,  did  not  belong  to  it.  If  she  chose  to  keep  on 
having  neuralgia,  that  was  her  afi^air,  but  in  justice 
to  natives  and  to  the  district  she  ought  not  to  make  too 
much  of  it,  and  she  ought  to  admit  that- it  might  well 
be  due  to  her  weakness  after  her  operation.  Miss  In- 
gate considered  the  climate  to  be  the  finest  in  England : 
which  it  was,  on  the  condition  that  you  were  proof 
against  neuralgia. 

"Father's  gone  to  Colchester  in  the  car  to  see  the 
Bishop,"  Audrey  coldly  added. 

"If  I'd  known  he  was  going  to  Colchester  I  should 
have  asked  him  for  a  lift,"  said  MiSs  Ingate  with  de- 
termination. 

"Oh,  yes !  He'd  have  taken  your*  said  Audrey,  re- 
served.    "I  suppose  you  had  fine  times  in  London!" 

"Oh!  It  was  vehy  exciting!  It  was  vehy  exciting!" 
Miss  Ingate  agreed  loudly. 

"Father  wouldn't  let  me  read  about  it  in  the  paper," 
said  Audrey,  still  reserved.  "He  never  will,  you  know. 
But  I  did!" 


MISS  INGATE,  AND  THE  YACHT         15 


Ui 


*0h!  But  you  didn't  read  about  me  playing  the 
barrel  organ  all  the  way  down  Regent  Street,  because 
that  wasn't  in  any  of  the  papers." 

"You  didn't!"  Audrey  protested,  with  a  sudden  dark 
smile, 

"Yes,  I  did.  Yes,  I  did.  Yes,  I  did.  And  vehy 
tiring  it  was.  Vehy  tiring  indeed.  It's  quite  an  art 
to  turn  a  barrel  organ.  If  you  don't  keep  going  per- 
fectly even  it  makes  the  tune  jerky.  Oh !  I  know  a 
bit  about  barrel  organs  now.  They  smashed  it  all  to 
pieces.  Oh  yes !  All  to  pieces.  I  spoke  to  the  police. 
I  said,  'Aren't  you  going  to  protect  these  ladies'  prop- 
erty?'    But  they  didn't  lift  a  finger." 

*'And  weren't  you  arrested.-^" 

"Me !"  shrieked  Miss  Ingate.  "Me  arrested !"  Then  ■ 
more  quietly,  in  an  assured  tone,  "Oh  no !  I  wasn't 
arrested.  You  see,  as  soon  as  the  row  began  I  just 
Walked  away  from  the  organ  and  became  one  of  the 
crowd.  I'm  all  for  them,  but  I  wasn't  going  to  be 
arrested." 

Miss  Ingate's  sparkling  ej^es  seemed  to  say :  "Sylvia 
Pankhurst  can  be  arrested  if  she  likes,  and  so  can  Mrs. 
Despard  and  Annie  Kenney  and  Jane  Foley,  or  any 
of  them.  But  the  policeman  that  is  clever  enough  to 
catch  Miss  Ingate  of  Moze  does  not  exist.  And  the 
gumption  of  Miss  Ingate  of  Moze  surpasses  the  united 
gumption  of  all  the  other  feminists  in  England." 

"Oh  no!  Oh  no!  Oh  no!"  repeated  Miss  Ingate 
with  mingled  complacency,  glee,  passion,  and  sardonic 
tolerance  of  the  whole  panorama  of  worldly  existence. 
"The  police  were  awful,  shocking.  But  I  was  not 
arrested." 

"Well,  /  was — this  morning,"  said  Audrey  in  a  low 
and  poignant  voice. 


16  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Miss  Ingate  was  startled  out  of  her  mood  of  the 
detached  ironic  spectator. 

"What?"  she  frowned. 

They  heard  a  servant  moving  about  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  and  a  capped  head  could  be  seen  through 
the  interstices  of  the  white  Chinese  balustrade.  The 
study  was  the  only  immediate  refuge ;  Miss  Ingate  ad- 
vanced right  into  it,  and  Audrey  pushed  the  door  to. 

"Father's  given  me  a  month's  C.B." 

Miss  Ingate,  gazing  at  the  girl's  face,  saw  in  its 
quiet  and  yet  savage  desperation  the  possibility  that 
after  all  she  might  indeed  be  surprised  by  the  vagaries 
of  human  nature  in  the  village.  And  her  glance  be- 
came sympathetic,  even  tender,  as  well  as  apprehen- 
sive. 

"'C.B.\?     What  do  you  mean— *  CB.'.?" 

"Don't  you  know  what  C.B.  means,'"'  exclaimed  Aud- 
rey with  scornful  superiority  over  the  old  spinster. 
"Confined  to  barracks.  Father  says  I'm  not  to  go 
beyond  the  grounds  for  a  month.  And  to-day's  the 
second  of  April!" 

"No!" 

*'Yes,  he  does.  He's  given  me  a  week,  you  know, 
before.     Now  it's  a  month." 

Silence  fell. 

Miss  Ingate  looked  round  at  the  shabby  study,  with 
its  guns,  cigar-boxes,  prints,  books  neither  old  nor 
new,  japanned  boxes  of  documents,  and  general  litter 
scattered  over  the  volutcd  walnut  furniture.  Her  own 
house  was  old-fashioned,  and  she  reahscd  that  it  was 
old-fashioned ;  but  when  she  came  into  Flank  Hall,  and 
particularly  into  Mr,  Moze's  study,  she  felt  as  if 
she  was  stepping  backwards  into  history — and  this  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  nothing  in  the  place  was  really 
ancient,  save  the  ceilings  and  the  woodwork  round  the 


MISS  INGATE,  AND  THE  YACHT         17 

windows.  It  was  Mr.  Moze's  habit  of  mind  that  domi- 
nated and  transmogrified  the  whole  interior,  giving  it 
the  quahty  of  a  mausoleum.  The  suffragette  proces- 
sion in  which  Miss  Ingate  had  musically  and  discreetly 
taken  part  seemed  to  her  as  she  stood  in  Mr.  Moze's 
changeless  lair  to  be  a  phantasm.  Then  she  looked  at 
the  young  captive  animal  and  perceived  that  two  cen- 
turies may  coincide  on  the  same  carpet  and  that  time 
is  merely  a  convention. 

"What  you  been  doing.'"'  she  questioned,  with  deli- 
cacy. 

"I  took  a  strange  man  by  the  hand,"  said  Audrey, 
choosing  her  words  queerly,  as  she  sometimes  did,  to 
produce  a  dramatic  effect. 

"This  morning?" 

"Yes.    Eight  o'clock." 

"What.?     Is  there  a  strange  man  in  the  village.?'* 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  haven't  seen  the  yacht!" 

"Yacht?"     Miss  Ingate  showed  some  excitement. 

"Come  and  look,  Winnie,"  said  Audrey,  who  occa- 
sionally thought  fit  to  address  Miss  Ingate  in  the  man- 
ner of  the  elder  generation.  She  drew  Miss  Ingate  to 
the  window. 

Between  the  brown  curtains  Mozewater,  the  broad, 
shallow  estuary  of  the  Moze,  was  spread  out  glittering 
in  the  sunshine  which  could  not  get  into  the  chilly 
room.  The  tide  was  nearly  at  full,  and  the  estuary 
looked  like  a  mighty  harbour  for  great  ships ;  but  in 
six  hours  it  would  be  reduced  to  a  narrow  stream  wind- 
ing through  mud  flats  of  marvellous  ochres,  greens, 
and  pinks.  In  the  hazy  distance  a  fitful  white  flash 
showed  where  ocean  waves  were  breaking  on  a  sand- 
bank. And  in  the  foreground,  against  a  disused  Hard 
that  was  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  lower  down  than 
the  village   Hard,   a  large  white  yacht  was  moored. 


18  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

probably  the  largest  yacht  that  had  ever  threaded  that 
ticklish  navigation.  She  was  a  shallow-draft  barge- 
yacht,  rigged  like  a  Thames  barge,  and  her  whiteness 
and  the  glint  of  her  brass,  and  the  flicker  of  her  ensign 
at  the  stern  were  dazzling.  Blue  figures  ran  busily 
about  on  her,  and  a  white  and  blue  person  in  a  peaked 
cap  stood  importantly  at  the  wheel. 

"She  was  on  the  mud  last  night,"  said  Audrey  ea- 
gerly, "opposite  the  Flank  buoy,  and  she  came  up  this 
morning  at  half  flood.  I  think  they  made  fast  at 
Lousey  Hard,  because  they  couldn't  get  any  further 
without  waiting.  They  have  a  motor,  and  it  must  be 
their  first  trip  this  season.  I  was  on  the  dyke.  I 
wasn't  even  locking  at  them,  but  they  called  me,  so 
I  had  to  go.  They  only  wanted  to  know  if  Lousey 
Hard  was  private.  Of  course  I  told  them  it  wasn't. 
It  was  a  very  middle-aged  man  spoke  to  me.  He  must 
be  the  owner.  As  soon  as  they  were  tied  up  he  wanted 
to  jump  ashore.  It  was  rather  awkward,  and  I  just 
held  out  my  hand  to  help  him.  Father  saw  me  from 
here.    I  might  have  known  he  would." 

"Why!     It's  going  off!"  exclaimed  Miss  Ingate. 

The  yacht  swung  slowly  round,  held  by  her  stem 
to  the  Hard.  Then  the  last  hawser  was  cast  off,  and 
she  floated  away  on  the  first  of  the  ebb;  and  as  she 
moved,  her  mainsail,  unbrailed,  spread  itself  out  and 
became  a  vast  pinion.  Like  a  dream  of  happiness  she 
lessened  and  faded,  and  Lousey  Hard  was  as  lonely  and 
forlorn  as  ever. 

"But  didn't  you  explain  to  your  father. ?"  Miss  In- 
gate demanded  of  Audrey. 

"Of  course  I  did.  But  he  wouldn't  listen.  He  never 
does.  I  might  just  as  well  have  explained  to  the  hall- 
clock.  He  raged.  I  think  he  enjoys  losing  his  temper. 
He  said  I  oughtn't  to  have  been  there  at  all,  and  it 


MISS  INGATE,  AND  THE  YACHT         19 

was  just  like  me,  and  he  couldn't  understand  it  in  a 
daughter  of  his,  and  it  would  be  a  great  shock  to  my 
poor  mother,  and  he'd  talked  enough — he  should  now 
proceed  to  action.  All  the  usual  things.  He  actually 
asked  me  who  'the  man'  was." 

"And  who  was  it?" 

"How  can  I  tell?  For  goodness'  sake  don't  go 
imitating  father,  Winnie!  .  .  .  Rather  a  dull  man, 
I  should  say.  Rather  like  father,  only  not  so  old. 
He  had  a  beautiful  necktie;  I  think  it  must  have  been 
made  out  of  a  strip  of  Joseph's  coat." 

Miss  Ingate  giggled  at  a  high  pitch,  and  Audrey 
responsively  smiled. 

"Oh  dear!  Oh  dearP'  murmured  Miss  Ingate  when 
her  gigghng  was  exhausted.  "How  queer  it  is  that  a 
girl  like  you  can't  keep  your  father  in  a  good  temper  I" 

"Father  hates  me  to  say  funny  things.  If  I  say 
anything  funny  he  turns  as  black  as  ink — and  he 
takes  care  to  keep  gloomy  all  the  rest  of  the  day, 
too.  He  never  laughs.  Mother  laughs  now  and  then, 
but  I  never  heard  father  laugh.  Oh  yes,  I  did.  He 
laughed  when  the  cat  fell  out  of  the  bath-room  window 
on  to  the  lawn-roller.  He  went  quite  red  in  the  face 
with  laughing.  ...  I  say,  Miss  Ingate,  do  you  think 
father's  mad?" 

"I  shouldn't  think  he's  what  you  call  mad,"  replied 
Miss  Ingate  judicially,  with  admirable  sangfroid. 
"I've  known  so  many  pecuHar  people  in  my  time.  And 
you  must  remember,  Audrey,  this  is  a  peculiar  part 
of  the  world." 

"Well,  I  believe  he's  mad,  anyway.  I  believe  he's 
got  men  on  the  brain,  especially  young  men.  He's 
growing  worse.  Yesterday  he  told  me  I  mustn't  have 
the  punt  out  on  Mozewater  this  season  unless  he's  with 
me.     Fancy  skiffing  about  with  father!     He  says  I'm 


20  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

too  old  for  that  now.  So  there  you  are.  The  older 
I  get  the  less  I'm  allowed  to  do.  I  can't  go  a  walk, 
unless  it's  an  errand.  The  pedal  is  off  my  bike,  and 
father  is  much  too  cunning  to  have  it  repaired.  I 
can't  boat.  I'm  never  given  any  money.  He  grumbles 
frightfully  if  I  want  any  clothes,  so  I  never  want  any. 
That's  my  latest  dodge.  I've  read  every  book  in  the 
house  except  the  silly  liturgical  and  legal  things  he's 
always  having  from  the  London  Library — and  I've  read 
even  some  of  those.  He  won't  buy  any  new  music. 
Golf!  Ye  gods,  Winnie,  you  should  hear  him  talk 
about  ladies  and  golf!" 

"I  have,"  said  Miss  Ingate.  "But  it  doesn't  ruffle 
me,  because  I  don't  play." 

"But  he  plays  with  girls,  and  young  girls,  too,  all 
the  same.  He's  been  caught  in  the  act.  Ethel  told 
me.  He  little  thinks  I  know.  He'd  let  me  play  if  he 
could  be  the  only  man  on  the  course.  He's  mad  about 
me  and  men.  He  never  looks  at  me  without  thinking 
of  all  the  boys  in  the  district." 

"But  he's  really  very  fond  of  you,  Audrey." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Audrey.  "He  ought  to  keep  rae 
in  the  china  cupboard." 

"Well,  it's  a  great  problem." 

"He's  invented  a  beautiful  new  trick  for  keeping  me 
in  when  he's  out.  I  have  to  copy  his  beastly  Society 
letters  for  him." 

"I  see  he's  got  a  new  box,"  observed  Miss  Ingate, 
glancing  into  the  open  cupboard  in  which  stood  the 
safe.  On  the  top  of  the  safe  were  two  japanned  boxes, 
each  lettered  in  white:  "The  National  Reformation 
Society."  The  uppermost  box  was  freshly  unpacked 
and  shone  with  all  the  intact  pride  of  virginity. 

"You  should  read  some  of  the  letters.  You  really 
should,   Winnie,"   said  Audrey.      "All  the  bigwigs   of 


MISS  INGATE,  AND  THE  YACHT        21 

the  Society  love  writing  to  each  other.  I  bet  you 
father  will  get  a  typewriting  machine  this  year,  and 
make  me  learn  it.  The  Chairman  has  a  typewriter, 
and  father  means  to  be  the  nest  chairman.  You'll 
see.  .    .    .Oh!    What's  that.?     Listen!" 

"What's  what?" 

A  faint  distant  throbbing  could  be  heard. 

"It's  the  motor!  He's  coming  back  for  something. 
Fly  out  of  here,  Winnie,  fly !" 

Audrey  felt  sick  at  the  thought  that  if  her  father 
had  returned  only  a  few  minutes  earlier  he  might  have 
trapped  her  at  the  safe  itself.  She  stiU  kept  one  hand 
behind  her. 

Miss  Ingate,  who  with  all  her  qualities  was  rather 
easily  flustered,  ran  out  of  the  dangerous  room  in  Aud- 
rey's wake.  They  met  Mr.  Mathew  Moze  at  the  half- 
landing  of  the  stairs. 

He  was  a  man  of  average  size,  somewhat  past  sixty 
years.  He  had  plump  cheeks,  tinged  with  red;  his 
hair,  moustache  and  short,  full  beard  were  quite  grey. 
He  wore  a  thick  wide-spreading  ulster,  and  between  his 
coat  and  waistcoat  a  leather  vest,  and  on  his  head 
a  grey  cap.  Put  him  in  the  Strand  in  town  clothes, 
and  he  might  have  been  taken  for  a  clerk,  a  civil  serv- 
ant, a  club  secretary,  a  retired  military  officer,  a  poet, 
an  undertaker — for  anything  except  the  last  of  a  long 
line  of  immovable  squires  who  could  not  possibly  con- 
ceive what  it  was  not  to  be  the  owner  of  land.  His 
face  was  preoccupied  and  overcast,  but  as  soon  as  he 
realised  that  Miss  Ingate  was  on  the  stairs  it  instantly 
brightened  into  a  warm  and  rather  wistful  smile. 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Ingate,"  he  greeted  her  with 
deferential  cordiality.     "I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  back." 

"Good  morning,  good  morning,  Mr.  Moze,"  respond- 
ed Miss  Ingate.    "Vehy  nice  of  you.    Vehy  nice  of  you.'* 


22  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Nobody  would  have  guessed  from  their  demeanour 
that  they  differed  on  every  subject  except  their  loyalty 
to  that  particular  corner  of  Essex,  that  he  regarded 
her  and  her  political  associates  as  deadly  microbes  in 
the  national  organism,  and  that  she  regarded  him  as  a 
nincompoop  crossed  with  a  tyrant.  Each  of  them  had 
a  magic  glass  to  see  in  the  other  nothing  but  a  local 
Effendi  and  familiar  guardian  angel  of  Moze.  More- 
over, Mr.  Moze's  public  smile  and  public  manner  were 
irresistible — until  he  lost  his  temper.  He  might  have 
had  friends  by  the  score,  had  it  not  been  for  his  deep 
constitutional  reserve — due  partly  to  diffidence  and 
partly  to  an  immense  hidden  conceit.  Mr.  Moze's  ex- 
istence was  actuated,  though  he  knew  it  not,  by  the 
conviction  that  the  historic  traditions  of  England  were 
committed  to  his  keeping.  Hence  the  conceit,  which 
was  that  of  a  soul  secretly  self-dedicated. 

Audrey,  outraged  by  the  hateful  hypocrisy  of  per- 
sons over  fifty,  and  terribly  constrained  and  alarmed, 
turned  vaguely  back  up  the  stairs.  Miss  Ingate,  not 
quite  knowing  what  she  did,  with  an  equal  vagueness 
followed  her. 

"Come  in.  Do  come  in,'*  urged  Mr.  Moze  at  the 
door  of  the  study. 

Audrey,  who  remained  on  the  landing,  heard  her 
elders  talk  smoothly  of  grave  Mozian  things,  while 
Mr.  Moze  unlocked  the  new  tin  box  above  the  safe. 

"I'd  forgotten  a  most  important  paper,"  said  he,  as 
he  re-locked  the  box.  "I  have  an  appointment  with  the 
Bishop  of  Colchester  at  10.45,  and  I  fear  I  may  be 
late.     Will  you  excuse  me,  Miss  Ingate.'"' 

She  excused  him. 

Departing,  he  put  the  paper  into  his  pocket  with  a 
careful  and  loving  gesture  that  well  symbolised  his 
passionate  affection  for  the  Society  of  which  he  was 


MISS  INGATE,  AND  THE  YACHT        23 

already  the  Vice-Chairman.  He  had  been  a  member 
of  the  National  Reformation  Society  for  eleven  years. 
Despite  the  promise  of  its  name,  this  wealthy  associa- 
tion of  idealists  had  no  care  for  reforms  in  a  sadly 
imperfect  England.  Its  aim  was  anti-Romanist.  The 
Reformation  which  it  had  in  mind  was  Luther's,  and 
it  wished,  by  fighting  an  alleged  insidious  revival  of 
Roman  Catholicism,  to  make  sure  that  so  far  as  Eng- 
land was  concerned  Luther  had  not  preached  in  vain. 
Mr.  Moze's  connection  with  the  Society  had  origi- 
nated in  a  quarrel  between  himself  and  a  Catholic 
priest  from  Ipswich  who  had  instituted  a  boys'  sum- 
mer camp  on  the  banks  of  Mozewater  near  the  village 
of  Moze.  Until  that  quarrel,  the  exceeding  noxious- 
ness of  the  Papal  doctrine  had  not  clearly  presented 
itself  to  Mr,  Moze.  In  such  strange  ways  may  an  ideal 
come  to  birth.  As  Mr.  Moze,  preoccupied  and  gloomy 
once  more,  steered  himself  rapidly  out  of  Moze  towards 
the  episcopal  presence,  the  image  of  the  imperturb- 
able and  Jesuitical  priest  took  shape  in  his  mind,  re- 
freshing his  determination  to  be  even  with  Rome  at 
any  cost. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    thief's    plan    WRECKED 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Audrey,  "father  has  another 
woman  in  the  house  now." 

Mr.  Moze  had  left  Miss  Ingate  in  the  study  and 
Audrey  had   cautiously  rejoined  her  there. 

"Another  woman  in  the  house!"  repeated  Miss  In- 
gate,  sitting  down  in  happy  expectation.  "What  on 
earth  do  you  mean?    Who  on  earth  do  you  mean.?" 

"I  mean  me." 

"You  aren't  a  woman,  Audrey." 

"I'm  just  as  much  of  a  woman  as  you  are.  All 
father's  behaviour  proves  it." 

"But  your  father  treats  you  as  a  child." 

"No,  he  doesn't.  He  treats  me  as  a  woman.  If  he 
thought  I  was  a  child  he  wouldn't  have  anything  to 
worry  about.      I'm  over  nineteen." 

"You  don't  look  it." 

"Of  course  I  don't.  But  I  could  if  I  liked.  I  simply 
won't  look  it  because  I  don't  care  to  be  made  ridiculous. 
I  should  start  to  look  my  age  at  once  if  father  stopped 
treating  me  like   a  child." 

"But  you've  just  said  he  treats  you  as  a  woman!" 

"You  don't  understand,  Winnie,"  said  the  girl 
sharply.  "Unless  you're  pretending.  Now  you've 
never  told  me  anything  about  yourself,  and  I've  always 
told  you  lots  about  myself.  You  belong  to  an  old- 
fashioned  family.  How  were  you  treated  when  you 
Were  my  age?" 

24 


THE  THIEF'S  PLAN  WRECKED  25 

"In  what  way?" 

"You  know  what  way,"  said  Audrey,  gazing  at 
her. 

"Well,  my  dear.  Things  seemed  to  come  very  nat- 
urally, somehow." 

"Were  you  ever  engaged.?" 

"Me  ?  Oh  no !"  answered  Miss  Ingate  with  tran- 
quillity. "I'm  vehy  interested  in  them.  Oh  vehy ! 
Oh  vehy!  And  I  like  talking  to  them.  But  anything 
more  than  that  gets  on  my  nerves.  My  eldest  sister 
was  the  one.  Oh!  She  was  the  one.  She  refused 
eleven  men,  and  when  she  was  going  to  be  married  she 
made  me  embroider  the  monograms  of  all  of  them  on 
the  skirt  of  her  wedding-dress.  She  made  me,  and  I 
had  to  do  it.  I  sat  up  all  night  the  night  before  the 
wedding  to  finish  them." 

'And  what  did  the  bridegroom  say  about  it?" 

*The  bridegroom  didn't  say  anything  about  it  be- 
cause he  didn't  know.  Nobody  knew  except  Arabella 
and  me.  She  just  wanted  to  feel  that  the  monograms 
were  on  her  dress,  that  was  all." 

"How  strange !" 

"Yes,  it  was.  But  this  is  a  vehy  strange  part  of 
the  world." 

"And  what  happened  afterwards?" 

"Bella  died  when  she  had  her  first  baby,  and  the  baby 
died  as  well.     And  the  father's  dead  now,  too." 

"What  a  horrid  story,  Winnie !"  Audrey  murmured. 
And  after  a  pause:     "I  like  your  sister." 

"She  was  vehy  uncommon.  But  I  liked  her  too.  I 
don't  know  why,  but  I  did.  She  could  make  the  best 
marmalade  I  ever  tasted  in  my  born  days." 

"I  could  make  the  best  marmalade  you  ever  tasted 
in  your  born  days,"  said  Audrey,   sinking  neatly  to 


"j 


26  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

the  floor  and  crossing  her  legs,  "but  they  won't  let 


me." 


«1 


'Won't  let  you!  But  I  thought  you  did  all  sorts 
of  things  in  the  house." 

"No,  Winnie.  I  only  do  one  thing.  I  do  as  I'm 
told — and  not  always  even  that.  Now  if  I  wanted  to 
make  the  best  marmalade  you  ever  tasted  in  your  born 
days,  first  of  all  there  would  be  a  fearful  row  about 
the  oranges.  Secondly  father  would  tell  mother  she 
must  tell  me  exactly  what  I  was  to  do.  He  would  also 
tell  cook.  Thirdly  and  lastly,  dear  friends,  he  would 
come  into  the  kitchen  himself.  It  wouldn't  be  my  mar- 
malade at  all.  I  should  only  be  a  marmalade-making 
machine.  They  never  let  me  have  any  responsibility — 
no,  not  even  when  mother's  operation  was  on — and  I'm 
never  officially  free.  The  kitchen-maid  has  far  more 
responsibility  than  I  have.  And  she  has  an  evening 
off  and  an  afternoon  off.  She  can  write  a  letter  with- 
out everybody  asking  her  who  she's  writing  to.  She's 
only  seventeen.  She  has  the  morning  postman  for  a 
young  man  now,  and  probably  one  or  two  others  that 
I  don't  know  of.  And  she  has  money  and  she  buys 
her  own  clothes.  She's  a  very  naughty,  wicked  girl, 
and  I  wish  I  was  in  her  place.  She  scorns  me,  natu- 
rally.    Who  wouldn't?" 

Miss  Ingate  said  not  a  word.  She  merely  sat  with 
her  hands  in  the  lap  of  her  spotted  pale-blue  dress, 
faintly  and  sadly  smiling. 

Audrey  burst  out: 

"Miss  Ingate,  what  can  I  do.''  I  must  do  some- 
thing.    What  can  I  do?" 

Miss  Ingate  shook  her  head,  and  put  her  lips  tightly 
together,  while  mechanically  smoothing  the  sides  of  her 
grey  coat. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.     "It  beats  me." 


THE  THIEF'S  PLAN  WRECKED  27 

"Then  /'ll  tell  you  what  I  can  do !"  answered  Audrey 
firmly,  wriggling  somewhat  nearer  to  her  along  the 
floor.     "And  what  I  shall  do." 

"What?" 

"Will  you  promise  to  keep  it  a  secret?" 

Miss  Ingate  nodded,  smiling  and  showing  her  teeth. 
Her  broad  polished  forehead  positively  shone  with 
kindly    eagerness. 

"Will  you  swear?" 

Miss     Ingate  hesitated,  and  then  nodded  again. 

"Then  put  your  hand  on  my  head  and  say,  *I 
swear.'  " 

Miss   Ingate  obeyed. 

"I  shall  leave  this  house,"  said  Audrey  in  a  low 
voice. 

"You  won't,  Audrey !" 

"I'll  eat  my  hand  off  if  I've  not  left  this  house  by 
to-morrow,   anyway." 

"To-morrow!"  Miss  Ingate  nearly  screamed. 
"Now,  Audrey,  do  reflect.     Think  what  you  are!" 

Audrey  bounded  to  her  feet. 

"That's  what  father's  always  saying,"  she  exploded 
angrily.  "He's  always  telling  me  to  examine  myself. 
The  fact  is  I  know  too  much  about  myself.  I  know 
exactly  the  kind  of  girl  it  is  who's  going  to  leave  this 
house.     Exactly !" 

"Audrey,  you  frighten  me.  Where  are  you  going 
to.?" 

"London." 

"Oh!  That's  all  right  then.  I  am  relieved.  I 
thought  perhaps  you  wanted  to  come  to  7ny  house. 
You  won't  get  to  London,  because  you  haven't  any 
money." 

"Oh  yes,  1  have.    I've  got  a  hundred  pounds." 

"Where?" 


28  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"Remember,  you've  sworn.  .  .  .  Here!"  she  cried 
suddenly,  and  drawing  her  hand  from  behind  her  back 
she  most  sensationally  displayeci  a  crushed  roll  of 
bank-notes. 

"And  who  did  you  get  those  from?" 

"I  didn't  get  them  from  anybody.  I  got  them  out 
of  father's  safe.  They're  his  reserve.  He  keeps  them 
right  at  the  back  of  the  left-hand  drawer,  and  he's  so 
sure  they're  there  that  he  never  looks  for  them.  He 
thinks  he's  a  perfect  model,  but  really  he's  careless. 
There's  a  duplicate  key  to  the  safe,  you  know,  and 
he  leaves  it  with  a  lot  of  other  keys  loose  in 
his  desk.  I  expect  he  thought  nobody  would  ever 
dream  of  guessing  it  was  a  key  of  the  safe.  I  know 
he  never  looked  at  this  roll,  because  I've  been  opening 
the  safe  every  day  for  weeks  past,  and  the  roll  was 
always  the  same.  In  fact  it  was  dusty.  Then  to-day 
I  decided  to  take  it,  and  here  you  are!  He  finished 
himself  off  yesterday  so  far  as  I'm  concerned,  with 
the  business  about  the  punt." 

"But  do  you  know  you're  a  thief,  Audrey.?"  breathed 
Miss  Ingate,  extremely  embarrassed,  and  for  once 
somewhat  staggered  by  the  vagaries  of  human  na- 
ture. 

"You  seem  to  forget,  Miss  Ingate,"  said  Audrey 
solemnly,  "that  Cousin  Caroline  left  me  a  legacy  of 
two  hundred  pounds  last  year,  and  that  I've  never 
seen  a  penny  of  it.  Father  absolutely  declined  to  let 
me  have  the  tiniest  bit  of  it.  Well,  I've  taken  half.  He 
can  keep  the  other  half  for  his  trouble." 

Miss  Ingate's  mouth  stood  open,  and  1;  .  eyes  seemed 

startled. 

"But  you  can't  go  to  London  alone.     You  wouldn't 

know  what  to  do." 

"Yes,  I  should.     I've  arranged  everything.     I  shall 


THE  THIEF'S  PLAN  WRECKED  29 

wear  mj  best  clothes.  When  I  arrive  at  Liverpool 
Street  I  shall  take  a  taxi.  I've  got  three  addresses  of 
boarding-houses  out  of  The  Daily  Telegraph,  and 
they're  all  in  Bloomsbury,  W.  C.  I  shall  have  lessons 
in  shorthand  and  typewriting  at  Pitman's  School,  and 
then  I  shall  get  a  situation.  My  name  will  be  Vava- 
sour." 

"But  you'll  be  caught." 

"I  shan't.  I  shall  book  to  Ipswich  first  and  begin 
again  from  there.  Girls  like  me  aren't  so  easy  to  catch 
as  all  that." 

"You're  vehy  cunning." 

"I  get  that  from  mother.  She's  most  frightfully 
cunning  with  father." 

"Audrey,"  said  Miss  Ingate  with  a  strange  grin, 
"I  don't  know  how  I  can  sit  here  and  listen  to  you. 
You'll  ruin  me  with  your  father,  because  if  you  go 
I'm  sure  I  shall  never  be  able  to  keep  from  him  that  I 
knew  all  about  it." 

"Then  you  shouldn't  have  sworn !"  retorted  Audrey. 
"But  I'm  glad  you  did  swear,  because  I  had  to  tell 
somebody,  and  there  was  nobody  but  you." 

Miss  Ingate  might  possibly  have  contrived  to  em- 
ploy some  of  that  sagacity  in  which  she  took  a  secret 
pride  upon  a  very  critical  and  urgent  situation,  had 
not  Mrs.  Moze,  with  a  white  handkerchief  wrapped 
round  her  forehead,  at  that  moment  come  into  the 
room.  Immediately  the  study  was  full  of  neuralgia  and 
eau  de  cologne. 

When  Mrs.  Moze  and  Miss  Ingate  at  length  recov- 
ered from  the  tenderness  of  meeting  each  other  after 
a  separation  of  ten  days  or  more,  Audrey  had  vanished 
like  an  illusion.  She  was  not  afraid  of  her  mother ; 
and  she  could  trust  Miss  Ingate,  though  Miss  Ingate 
and  Mrs.   Moze  were  dangerously  intimate ;  but  she 


30  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

was  too  self-conscious  to  remain  in  the  presence  of 
her  fellow-creatures ;  and  in  spite  of  her  faith  in  Miss 
Ingate  she  thought  of  the  spinster  as  of  a  vase  filled 
now  with  a  fatal  liquor  which  by  any  accident  might 
spill  and  spread  ruin — so  that  she  could  scarcely  bear 
to  look  upon  Miss  Ingate. 

At  the  back  of  the  house  a  young  Pomeranian  dog, 
which  had  recently  solaced  Miss  Ingate  in  the  loss  of 
a  Pekingese  done  to  death  by  a  spinster's  too-nourish- 
ing love,  was  prancing  on  his  four  springs  round  the 
chained  yard-dog,  his  friend  and  patron.  In  a  series 
of  marvellous  short  bounds,  he  followed  Audrey  with 
yapping  eagerness  down  the  slope  of  the  garden ;  and 
the  yard-dog,  aware  that  none  but  the  omnipotent 
deity,  Mr.  Moze,  sole  source  of  good  and  evil,  had  the 
right  to  loose  him,  turned  round  once  and  laid  him- 
self flat  and  long  on  the  ground,  sighing. 

The  garden,  after  developing  into  an  orchard  and 
deteriorating  into  a  scraggy  plantation,  ended  in  a 
low  wall  that  was  at  about  the  level  of  the  sea-wall 
and  separated  from  it  by  a  water-course  and  a  strip 
of  very  green  meadow.  Audrey  glanced  instinctively 
back  at  the  house  to  see  if  anybody  was  watching  her. 

Flank  Hall,  which  for  a  hundred  years  had  been 
called  "the  new  hall" — was  a  seemly  Georgian  resi- 
dence, warm  in  colour,  with  some  quaint  woodwork; 
and  like  most  such  buildings  in  Essex,  it  made  a  very 
happy  marriage  with  the  landscape.  Its  dormers  and 
fine  chimneys  glowed  amid  the  dark  bare  trees,  and 
they  alone  would  have  captivated  a  Londoner  possess- 
ing those  precious  attributes,  fortunately  ever  spread- 
ing among  the  enlightened  middle-classes,  a  motor-car, 
a  cultured  taste  in  architecture,  and  a  desire  to  enter 
the  squirearchy.  Audrey  loathed  the  house.  For  her 
it  was  the  last  depth  of  sordidness  and  the  common- 


THE  THIEF'S  PLAN  WRECKED  31 

place.  She  could  imagine  positively  nothing  less  ro- 
mantic. She  thought  of  the  ground-floor  on  chill 
March  mornings  with  no  fires  anywhere  save  a  red 
gleam  in  the  dining-room,  and  herself  wandering  about 
in  it  idle,  at  a  loss  for  a  diversion,  an  ambition,  an 
effort,  a  real  task ;  and  she  thought  of  the  upper-floor, 
a  mainly-unoccupied  wilderness  of  iron  bedsteads  and 
yellow  chests  of  drawers  and  chipped  earthenware  and 
islands  of  carpets,  and  her  mother  plaintively  and 
weariedly  arguing  with  some  servant  over  a  slop-pail  in 
a  corner.  The  images  of  the  interior,  indelibly  printed 
in  her  soul,  desolated  her. 

Mozewater  she  loved,  and  every  souvenir  of  it  was 
exquisite — red  barges  beating  miraculously  up  the 
shallow  puddles  to  Moze  Quay,  equinoctial  spring-tides 
when  the  estuary  was  a  tremendous  ocean  covered  with 
foam  and  the  sea-wall  felt  the  light  lash  of  spray, 
thunderstorms  in  autumn  gathering  over  the  yellow 
melancholy  of  deathlike  sunsets,  wild  birds  crying 
across  miles  of  uncovered  mud  at  early  morning  and 
duck-hunters  crouching  in  punts  behind  a  waving 
screen  of  delicate  grasses  to  wing  them,  and  the  mys- 
terious shapes  of  steamers  and  warships  in  the  offing 
beyond  the  Sand.  .  .  .  The  sail  of  the  receding  yacht 
gleamed  now  against  the  Sand,  and  its  flashing  broke 
her  heart;  for  it  was  the  flashing  of  freedom.  She 
thought  of  the  yachtsman;  he  was  very  courteous  and 
deferential ;  a  mild  creature ;  he  had  behaved  to  her 
ag  to  a  woman.  .  ,  .  Oh !  To  be  the  petted  and  capri- 
cious wife  of  such  a  man,  to  nod  commands,  to  enslave 
with  a  smile,  to  want  a  thing  and  instantly  to  have  it, 
to  be  consulted  and  to  decide,  to  spend  with  large  ges- 
tures, to  be  charitable,  to  be  adored  by  those  whom 
you  had  saved  from  disaster,  to  increase  happiness 
wherever  you  went  .    ,    .  and  to  be  free !  .   .    . 


32  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

The  little  dog  jumped  up  at  her  because  he  was 
tired  of  being  ignored,  and  she  caught  him  and  kissed 
him  again  and  again  passionately,  and  he  wriggled 
with  ecstasy  and  licked  her  ears  with  all  the  love  in 
him.  And  in  kissing  him  she  kissed  grave  and  affec- 
tionate husbands,  she  kissed  the  lovely  scenery  of  the 
Sound,  and  she  kissed  the  magnificent  ideal  of  emanci- 
pation. But  the  dog  had  soon  had  enough  of  her  arms  ; 
he  broke  free,  sprang,  alighted,  and  rolled  over,  and 
arose  sniffing,  with  earth  on  his  black  muzzle.    .    .    . 

He  looked  up  at  her  enquiringly.  .  .  .  Strange, 
short-f rocked  blue  figure  looking  down  at  him!  She 
had  a  bulging  forehead;  her  brown  eyes  were  tunnelled 
underneath  it.  But  what  living  eyes,  what  ardent  eyes, 
that  blazed  up  and  sank  like  a  fire !  What  delicate  and 
exact  mirrors  of  the  secret  traffic  between  her  soul  and 
the  soul  of  the  world!  She  had  full  cheeks,  and  a 
large  mouth  ripe  red,  inviting  and  provocative.  In 
the  midst,  an  absurd  small  unprominent  nose  that 
meant  nothing!  Her  complexion  was  divine,  surpass- 
ing all  similes.  To  caress  that  smooth  downy  cheek 
(if  you  looked  close  you  could  see  the  infinitesimal 
down  against  the  light  like  an  aura  on  the  edge  of  the 
silhouette),  even  to  let  the  gaze  dwell  on  it,  what  an 
enchantment !  .  .  .  She  considered  herself  piquant  and 
comely,  and  she  was  not  deceived.     She  had  long  hands. 

The  wind  from  afar  on  her  cheek  reminded  her 
poignantly  that  she  was  a  prisoner.  She  could  not  go 
to  the  clustered  village  on  the  left,  nor  into  the  saltings 
on  the  right,  nor  even  on  to  the  sea-wall  where  the  new 
rushes  and  grasses  were  showing.  All  the  estuary 
was  barred,  and  the  winding  road  that  mounted  the 
slope  towards  Colchester.  Her  revolt  against  injustice 
was  savage.  Hatred  of  her  father  surged  up  in  her  like 
glittering  lava.     She  had  long  since  ceased  to  try  to 


THE  THIEF'S  PLAN  WRECKED  33 

comprehend  him.  She  despised  herself  because  she 
was  unreasonably  afraid  of  him,  ridiculously  mute  be- 
fore him.  She  could  not  understand  how  anybody  could 
be  friendly  with  him — for  was  he  not  notorious?  Yet 
everywhere  he  was  greeted  with  respect  and  smiles,  and 
he  would  chat  at  length  with  all  manner  of  people  on 
a  note  of  mild  and  smooth  cordiality.  He  and  Miss 
Ingate  would  enjoy  together  the  most  enormous  talks. 
She  was,  however,  aware  that  Miss  Ingate's  opinion  of 
him  was  not  very  different  from  her  own.  Each  time 
she  saw  her  father  and  Miss  Ingate  in  communion  she 
would  say  in  her  heart  to  Miss  Ingate:  "You  are  dis- 
loyal to  me."  ... 

Was  it  possible  that  she  had  confided  to  Miss  Ingate 
her  fearful  secret?  The  conversation  appeared  to  her 
unreal  now.  She  went  over  her  plan.  In  the  after- 
noon her  father  was  always  out,  and  to-morrow  after- 
noon her  mother  would  be  out  too.  She  would  have  a 
few  things  in  a  light  bag  that  she  could  carry — her 
mother's  bag!  She  would  put  on  her  best  clothes  and 
a  veil  from  her  mother's  wardrobe.  She  would  take 
the  4.5  p.  m.  train.  The  stationmaster  would  be  at 
his  tea  then.  Only  the  booking-clerk  and  the  porter 
would  see  her,  and  neither  would  dare  to  make  an 
observation.  She  would  ask  for  a  return  ticket  to 
Ipswich :  that  would  allay  suspicion,  and  at  Ipswich  she 
would  book  again.  She  had  cut  out  the  addresses  of 
the  boarding-houses.  She  would  have  to  buy  things  in 
London.  She  knew  of  two  shops — Harrod's  and  Shool- 
bred's ;  she  had  seen  their  catalogues.  And  the  very 
next  morning  after  arrival  she  would  go  to  Pitman's 
School.  She  would  change  the  first  of  the  £5  notes 
at  the  station  and  ask  for  plenty  of  silver.  She  glanced 
at  the  unlimited  wealth  still  crushed  in  her  hand,  and 
then  she  carefully  dropped  the  fortune  down  the  neck 


34.  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

of  her  frock.  .  .  .  Stealing?  She  repulsed  the  idea 
with  violent  disdain.  What  she  had  accomplished 
against  her  father  was  not  a  crime,  but  a  ven- 
geance. .  .  .  She  would  never  be  found  in  London. 
It  was  impossible.  Her  plan  seemed  to  her  to  be  per- 
fect in  each  detail,  except  one.  She  was  not  the  right 
sort  of  girl  to  execute  it.  She  was  very  shy.  She 
suspected  that  no  other  girl  could  really  be  as  shy 
as  she  was.  She  recalled  dreadful  rare  moments  with 
her  mother  in  strange  drawing-rooms.  Still,  she  would 
execute  the  plan  even  if  she  died  of  fright.  A  force 
within  her  would  compel  her  to  execute  it.  This  force 
did  not  make  for  happiness ;  on  the  contrary,  it  uncom- 
fortably scared  her;  but  it  was  irresistible. 

Something  on  the  brow  of  the  road  from  Colchester 
attracted  her  attention.  It  was  a  handcart,  pushed 
by  a  labourer  and  by  Pohce  Inspector  Keeble,  whom 
she  liked.  Following  the  handcart  over  the  brow  came 
a  loose  procession  of  villagers,  which  included  no  chil- 
dren because  the  children  were  in  school.  Except  on  a 
Sunday  Audrey  had  never  before  seen  a  procession  of 
villagers,  and  these  villagers  must  have  been  collected 
out  of  the  fields,  for  the  procession  was  going  in  the 
direction  of,  and  not  away  from,  the  village.  The  hand- 
cart was  covered  with  a  tarpaulin.  .  .  .  She  knew 
what  had  happened ;  she  knew  infallibly.  Skirting  the 
boundary  of  the  grounds,  she  reached  the  main  en- 
trance to  Flank  Hall  thirty  seconds  before  the  hand- 
cart. The  little  dog,  delighted  in  a  new  adventure, 
yapped  ecstatically  at  her  heels,  and  then  bounded 
onwards  to  meet  the  Inspector  and  the  handcart. 

"Run  and  tell  yer  mother.  Miss  Moze,"  Inspector 
Keeble  called  out  in  a  carrying  whisper.  "There's  been 
an  accident.  He  ditched  the  car  near  Ardleigh  cross- 
roads, trying  to  avoid  some  fowls," 


THE  THIEF'S  PLAN  WRECKED  35 

Mr.  Moze,  hurrying  too  fast  to  meet  the  Bishop 
of  Colchester,  had  met  a  greater  than  the  Bishop. 

Audrey  glanced  an  instant  with  a  sick  qualm  at  the 
outlines  of  the  shape  beneath  the  tarpaulin,  and  ran. 

In  the  dining-room,  over  the  speck  of  fire,  Mrs.  Moze 
and  Miss  Ingate  were  locked  in  a  deep  intimate  gossip. 

"Mother!"  cried  Audrey,  and  then  sank  like  a  sack. 

"Why !  The  little  thing's  fainted !"  Miss  Ingate  ex- 
claimed in  a  voice  suddenly  hoarse. 


CHAPTER  III 


THE    LEGACY 


Audrey  and  Miss  Ingate  were  in  the  late  Mathew 
Moze's  study,  fascinated — as  much  unconsciously  as 
consciously — by  the  thing  which  since  its  owner's  death 
had  grown  every  hour  more  mysterious  and  more 
formidable — the  safe.  It  was  a  fine  afternoon.  The 
secondary  but  still  grandiose  enigma  of  the  affair,  Mr. 
Cowl,  could  be  heard  walking  methodically  on  the 
gravel  in  the  garden.  Mr.  Cowl  was  the  secretary  of 
the  National  Reformation  Society. 

Suddenly  the  irregular  sound  of  crunching  receded. 

"He's  gone  somewhere  else,"  said  Audrey. 

"I'm  so  relieved,"  said  Miss  Ingate.  "I  hope  he's 
gone  a  long  way  off." 

"Are  you?"  murmured  Audrey,  with  an  air  of  sur- 
prised superiority. 

But  in  secret  Audrey  felt  just  as  relieved  as  Miss 
Ingate,  despite  the  fact  that,  her  mother  being  pros- 
trate, she  was  the  mistress  of  the  situation,  and  could 
have  ordered  Mr.  Cowl  to  leave,  with  the  certainty  of 
being  obeyed.  She  was  astonished  at  her  illogical  sen- 
sations, and  she  had  been  frequently  so  astonished  in 
the  previous  four  days. 

For  example,  she  was  free;  she  knew  that  she  could 
impose  herself  on  her  mother ;  never  again  would  she  be 
the  slave  of  an  unreasoning  tyrant ;  yet  she  was  gloomy 
and  without  hope.  She  had  hated  the  unreasoning 
tyrant ;  yet  she  felt  very  sorry  for  him  because  he  was 

36 


THE  LEGACY  37 

dead.  And  though  she  felt  very  sorry  for  him,  she 
detested  hearing  the  panegyrics  upon  him  of  the  vil- 
lage, and  particularly  of  those  persons  with  whom  he 
had  quarrelled;  she  actually  stopped  Miss  Ingate  in 
the  midst  of  an  enumeration  of  his  good  qualities — his 
charm,  his  smile,  his  courtesy,  his  integrity,  et  cetera; 
she  could  not  bear  it.  She  thought  that  no  child  had 
ever  had  such  a  strange  attitude  to  a  deceased  parent 
as  hers  to  Mr.  Moze.  She  had  anticipated  the  inquest 
with  an  awful  dread ;  it  proved  to  be  a  trifle,  and  a 
ridiculous  trifle.  In  the  long  weekly  letter  which  she 
wrote  to  her  adored  schoolfriend  Ethel  at  Manningtree 
she  had  actually  likened  the  coroner  to  a  pecking  fowl ! 
Was  it  possible  that  a  daughter  could  write  in  such  a 
strain  about  the  inquest  on  her  father's  body.'' 

The  funeral  had  seemed  to  function  by  itself,  with 
some  guidance  from  the  undertaker  and  still  more  from 
Mr.  Cowl.  Villagers  and  district  acquaintances  had 
been  many  at  the  ceremony,  but  relatives  rare.  Mr. 
Moze's  four  younger  brothers  were  all  in  the  colonies; 
Mrs.  Moze  had  apparently  no  connections.  Madame 
Piriac,  daughter  of  Mr.  Moze's  first  wife  by  that  lady's 
first  husband,  had  telegraphed  sympathies  from  Paris. 
A  cousin  or  so  had  come  in  person  from  Woodbridge 
for  the  day. 

It  was  from  the  demeanour  of  these  cousins,  grave 
men  twice  her  age  or  more,  that  Audrey  had  first  di- 
vined her  new  importance  in  the  world.  Their  defer- 
ence indicated  that  in  their  opinion  the  future  mistress 
of  Flank  Hall  was  not  Mrs.  Moze,  but  Audrey.  Aud- 
rey admitted  that  they  were  right.  Yet  she  took  no 
pleasure  in  issuing  commands.  She  spoke  firmly,  but 
she  said  to  herself:  "There  is  no  backbone  to  this 
firmness,  and  I  am  a  fraud."  She  had  always  yearned 
for  responsibility,  yet  now  that  it  was  in  her  hand  she 


38  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

trembled,  and  she  would  have  dropped  it  and  run  away 
from  it  as  from  a  bomb,  had  she  not  been  too  cowardly 
to  show  her  cowardice. 

The  instance  of  Aguilar,  the  head-gardener  and  me- 
chanic, well  illustrated  her  pusillanimity.  She  loathed 
Aguilar;  her  mother  loathed  him;  the  servants  loathed 
him.  He  had  said  at  the  inquest  that  the  car  was 
in  perfect  order,  but  that  Mr.  Moze  was  too  excitable 
to  be  a  good  driver.  His  evidence  was  true,  but  the 
jury  did  not  care  for  his  manner.  Nor  did  the  village. 
He  had  only  two  good  qualities — honesty  and  effi- 
ciency; and  these  by  their  rarity  excited  jealousy 
rather  than  admiration.  Audrey  strongly  desired  to 
throw  the  gardener-mechanic  upon  the  world;  it  nau- 
seated her  to  see  his  disobliging  face  about  the  garden. 
But  he  remained  scatheless,  to  refuse  demanded  vege- 
tables, to  annoy  the  kitchen,  to  pronounce  the  motor- 
car utterly  valueless,  and  to  complain  of  his  own  liver. 
Audrey  had  legs ;  she  had  a  tongue ;  she  could  articu- 
late. Neither  wish  nor  power  was  lacking  in  her  to 
give  Aguilar  the  supreme  experience  of  his  career. 
And  yet  she  did  not  walk  up  to  him  and  say :  "Aguilar, 
please  take  a  week's  notice."  Why.''  The  question 
puzzled  her  and  lowered  her  opinion  of  herself. 

She  was  similarly  absurd  in  the  paramount  matter 
of  the  safe.  The  safe  could  not  be  opened.  The  vil- 
lage, having  been  thrilled  by  four  stirring  days  of  the 
most  precious  and  rare  fever,  had  suffered  much  after 
the  funeral  from  a  severe  reaction  of  dulness.  It 
would  have  suffered  much  more  had  the  fact  not 
escaped  that  the  safe  could  not  be  opened.  In  the  deep 
depression  of  the  day  following  the  funeral  the  village 
could  still  say  to  itself:  "Romance  and  excitement  are 
not  yet  over,  for  the  key  of  the  Moze  safe  is  lost,  and 
the  will  is  in  the  safe!" 


THE  LEGACY  39 

The  village  did  not  know  that  there  were  two  keys 
to  the  safe  and  that  they  were  both  lost.  Nobody 
knew  that  except  Audrey  and  INIiss  Ingate  and  Mr. 
Cowl.  The  official  key  was  lost  because  Mr.  Moze's 
key-ring  was  lost.  The  theory  was  that  it  had  been 
jerked  out  of  his  pocket  in  the  accident.  Persistent 
search  for  it  had  been  unsuccessful.  As  for  the  un- 
official or  duplicate  key,  Audrey  could  not  remember 
where  she  had  put  it  after  her  burglary,  the  conclusion 
of  which  had  been  disturbed  by  Miss  Ingate.  At  one 
moment  she  was  quite  sure  that  she  had  left  the  key  in 
the  safe,  but  at  another  moment  she  was  equally  sure 
that  she  was  holding  the  key  in  her  right  hand  (the 
bank-notes  being  in  her  left)  when  Miss  Ingate  en- 
tered the  room ;  at  still  another  moment  she  was  almost 
convinced  that  before  Miss  Ingate's  arrival  she  had 
run  to  the  desk  and  slipped  the  key  back  into  its 
drawer.  In  any  case  the  second  key  was  irretrievable. 
She  discussed  the  dilemma  very  fully  with  Miss  Ingate, 
who  had  obligingly  come  to  stay  in  the  house.  They 
examined  every  aspect  of  the  affair,  except  Audrey's 
guiltiness  of  theft,  which  both  of  them  tacitly  ignored. 
In  the  end  they  decided  that  it  might  be  wiser  not  to 
conceal  Audrey's  knowledge  of  the  existence  of  a  sec- 
ond key ;  and  they  told  Mr.  Cowl,  because  he  happened 
to  be  at  hand.  In  so  doing  they  were  ill-advised,  be- 
cause Mr.  Cowl  at  once  acted  in  a  characteristic  and 
inconvenient  fashion  which  they  ought  to  have  fore- 
seen. 

On  the  day  before  the  funeral  Mr.  Cowl  had  tele- 
graphed from  some  place  in  Devonshire  that  he  should 
represent  the  National  Reformation  Society  at  the 
funeral,  and  asked  for  a  bed,  on  the  pretext  that  he 
could  not  get  from  Devonshire  to  Moze  in  time  for  the 
funeral  if  he  postponed  his  departure  until  the  next 


40  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

morning.  The  telegram  was  quite  costly.  He  arrived 
for  dinner,  a  fat  man  about  thirty-eight,  with  chestnut 
hair,  a  low,  alluring  voice,  and  a  small  handbag  for 
luggage.  Miss  Ingate  thought  him  very  interesting, 
and  he  was.  He  said  little  about  the  National  Refor- 
mation Society,  but  a  great  deal  about  the  late  Mr. 
Moze,  of  whom  he  appeared  to  be  an  intimate  friend; 
presumably  the  friendship  had  developed  at  meetings 
of  the  Society.  After  dinner  he  strolled  nonchalantly 
to  the  sideboard  and  opened  a  box  of  the  deceased's 
cigars,  and  suggested  that,  as  he  was  well  acquainted 
with  the  brand,  having  often  enjoyed  the  hospitality 
of  Mr.  Moze's  cigar-case,  he  should  smoke  a  cigar 
now  to  the  memory  of  the  departed.  Miss  Ingate  then 
began  to  feel  alarmed.  He  smoked  four  cigars  to  the 
memory  of  the  departed,  and  on  retiring  ventured  to 
take  four  more  for  consumption  during  the  night,  as 
he  seldom  slept. 

In  the  morning  he  went  into  the  bathroom  at  eight 
o'clock  and  remained  there  till  noon,  reading  and  smok- 
ing in  continually  renewed  hot  water.  He  descended 
blandly,  begged  Miss  Moze  not  to  trouble  about  his 
breakfast,  and  gently  assumed  a  certain  control  of  the 
funeral.  After  the  funeral  he  announced  that  he 
should  leave  on  the  morrow :  but  the  mystery  of  the  safe 
held  him  to  the  house.  When  he  heard  of  the  existence 
of  the  second  key  he  organised  and  took  command  of  a 
complete  search  of  the  study,  and  in  the  course  of  the 
search  he  inspected  every  document  in  the  study.  He 
said  he  knew  that  the  deceased  had  left  a  legacy 
to  the  Society,  and  he  should  not  feel  justified  in  quit- 
ting Moze  until  the  will  was  found. 

Now  in  these  circumstances  Audrey  ought  certainly 
to  have  telegraphed  to  her  father's  solicitor  at  Chelms- 
ford at  once.     In  the  alternative  she  ought  to  have 


THE  LEGACY  41 

hired  a  safe-opening  expert  or  a  burglar  from  Col- 
chester. She  had  accomplished  neither  of  these  down- 
right things.  With  absolute  power,  she  had  done 
nothing  but  postpone.  She  wondered  at  herself,  for 
up  to  her  father's  death  she  had  been  a  great  critic 
of  absolute   power. 

The  heavy  policemanish  step  of  Mr.  Cowl  was  heard 
on  the   landing. 

"He's  coming  down  on  us !"  exclaimed  Miss  Ingate, 
partly  afraid,  and  partly  sardonic  at  her  own  fear. 
"I'm  sure  he's  coming  down  on  us.  Audrey,  I  liked 
that  man  at  first,  but  now  I  tremble  before  him.  And 
I'm  sure  his  moustache  is  dyed.  Can't  you  ask  him 
to  leave.'"' 

"Is  his  moustache  dyed,  Winnie?     Oh,  what  fun!" 

Miss  Ingate's  apprehension  was  justified.  There 
was  a  knock  at  the  study-door,  discreet,  insistent, 
menacing,  and  it  was  Mr.  Cowl's  knock.  He  entered, 
smiling  gravely  and  yet,  as  it  were,  teasingly.  His 
easy  bigness,  florid  and  sinister,  made  a  disturbing  con- 
trast with  the  artless  and  pure  simplicity  of  Audrey 
in  her  new  black  robe,  and  even  with  Miss  Ingate's 
pallid  maturity,  which,  after  all,  was  passably  inno- 
cent and  ingenuous.  Mr.  Cowl  resembled  a  great  beast 
good-humouredly  lolloping  into  the  cage  in  which  two 
rabbits  had  been  placed  for  his  diversion  and  hunger. 

Pulling  a  key  from  the  pocket  of  his  vast  waistcoat, 
he  said  in  his  quiet  voice,  so  seductive  and  ominous : 

"Is  this  the  key  of  the  safe.?" 

He  offered  it  delicately  to  Audrey. 

It  was  the  key  of  the  safe. 

"Did  they  find  it  in  the  ditch.'"'  Audrey  demanded, 
blushing,  for  she  knew  that  the  key  had  not  been 
found  in  the  ditch;  she  knew  by  a  certain  indentation 


42  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

on  it  that  it  was  the  duplicate  key  which  she  herself 
had  mislaid. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Cowl.  "I  found  it  myself,  and  not 
in  the  ditch.  I  remembered  you  had  said  that  you  had 
changed  at  the  dressmaker's  in  the  village  and  had  left 
there  an  old  frock." 

"Did  I.f"'  murmured  Audrey,  with  a  deeper  blush. 

Mr.  Cowl  nodded. 

"I  had  the  happy  idea  that  you  might  have  had  the 
key  and  left  it  in  the  pocket  of  the  frock.  So  I  trotted 
down  to  the  dressmaker's  and  asked  for  the  frock,  in 
your  name,  and  lo !  the  result !"  * 

He  pointed  to  the  key  lying  in  Audrey's  long  hand. 

"But  how  should  I  have  had  the  key,  Mr.  Cowl? 
Why  should  I  have  had  the  key?"  Audrey  burst  out 
like  a  simpleton. 

"That,  Miss  Moze,"  said  he  with  a  peculiar  grin 
and  in  an  equally  peculiar  tone,  "is  a  matter  about 
which  obviously  you  are  better  informed  than  I  am. 
Shall  we  try  the  key?" 

With  a  smooth  undeniable  gesture  he  took  the  key 
again  from  Audrey,  and  bent  his  huge  form  to  open 
the  safe.  As  he  did  so  Miss  Ingate  made  a  sarcastic 
and  yet  affrighted  face  at  Audrey,  and  Audrey  tried 
to  send  a  signal  in  reply,  but  failed,  owing  to  imperfect 
self-control.  However,  she  managed  to  say  to  Mr. 
Cowl's  curved  back: 

"You  couldn't  have  found  the  key  in  the  pocket  of 
my  old  frock,  Mr.  Cowl." 

"And  why?"  he  enquired  benevolently,  raising  and 
turning  his  chestnut  head.  Even  in  that  exciting  in- 
stant Audrey  could  debate  within  herself  whether  or 
not  his  superb  moustache  was  dyed. 

"Because  it  has  no  pocket." 

"So   I   discovered,"    said   Mr.    Cowl,    after   a    little 


THE  LEGACY  43 

pause.  "I  merely  stated  that  I  had  the  happy  idea — • 
for  it  proved  to  be  a  happy  idea — that  you  might 
have  left  the  key  in  the  pocket.  I  discovered  it,  as  a 
fact,  in  a  slit  of  the  lining  of  the  belt.  .  .  .  Con- 
ceivably you  had  slipped  it  in  there — in  a  hurry." 
He  put  strange  implications  into  the  last  three  words. 
"Yes,  it  is  the  authentic  key,"  he  concluded,  as  the 
door  of  the  safe  swung  heavily  and  silently  open. 

Audrey,  for  the  first  time,  felt  rather  like  a  thief 
as  she  beheld  the  familiar  interior  of  the  safe  which  a 
few  days  earlier  she  had  so  successfully  rifled.  "Is  it 
possible,"  she  thought,  "that  I  really  took  bank-notes 
out  of  that  safe,  and  that  they  are  at  this  very  mo- 
ment in  my  bedroom  between  the  leaves  of  'Pictures  of 
Palestine'?" 

Mr.  Cowl  was  cautiously  fumbling  among  the  serried 
row  of  documents  which,  their  edges  towards  the  front, 
filled  the  steel  shelf  above  the  drawers.  Audrey  had 
never  experienced  any  curiosity  concerning  the  docu- 
ments. Lucre  alone  had  interested  the  base  creature. 
No  documents  would  have  helped  her  to  freedom.  But 
now  she  thought  apprehensively :  "My  fate  may  be 
among  those  documents."  She  was  quite  prepared  to 
learn  that  her  father  had  done  something  silly  in  his 
will. 

"This  resembles  a  testament,"  said  Mr.  Cowl,  smil- 
ing to  himself,  and  pulling  out  a  foolscap  scrip,  folded 
and  endorsed.    "Yes.    Dated  last  year." 

He  unfolded  the  document;  a  letter  slipped  from 
the  interior  of  it;  he  placed  the  letter  on  the  small 
occasional  table  next  to  the  desk,  and  offered  the  will 
to  Audrey  with  precisely  the  same  gesture  as  he  had 
offered  the  key. 

Audrey  tried  to  decipher  the  will,  and  completely 
failed. 


44  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"Will  you  read  it,  Miss  Ingate?"  she  muttered. 

"I  can't !  I  can't !"  answered  Miss  Ingate  in  excite- 
ment. "I'm  sure  I  can't.  I  never  could  read  wills. 
They're  so  funny,  somehow.  And  I  haven't  got  my 
spectacles."     She  flushed  slightly. 

"May  /  venture  to  tell  you  what  it  contains?"  Mr. 
Cowl  suggested.  "There  can  be  no  indiscretion  on  my 
part  as  all  wills  after  probate  are  public  property, 
and  can  be  inspected  by  any  Tom,  Dick  or  Harry  for 
a  fee  of  one  shilling." 

He  took  the  document  and  gazed  at  it  intently, 
turning  over  a  page  and  turning  back,  for  an  extraor- 
dinarily long  time. 

Audrey  said  to  herself  again  and  again,  with  ex- 
asperated impatience:  "He  knows  now,  and  I  don't 
know.  He  knows  now,  and  I  don't  know.  He  knows 
now,  and  I  don't  know." 

At  length  Mr.  Cowl  spoke : 

"It  is  a  perfectly  simple  will.  The  testator  leaves 
the  whole  of  his  property  to  Mrs.  Moze  for  life,  and 
afterwards  to  you,  Miss  Moze.  There  are  only  two 
legacies.  Ten  pounds  to  James  Aguilar,  gardener. 
And  the  testator's  shares  in  the  Zacatecas  Oil  Devel- 
opment Syndicate  to  the  National  Reformation  So- 
ciety. I  may  say  that  the  testator  had  expressed  to 
me  his  intention  of  leaving  these  shares  to  the  Society. 
We  should  have  preferred  money,  free  of  legacy  duty, 
but  the  late  Mr.  Moze  had  a  reason  for  everything  he 
did.  I  must  now  big  you  good-bye,  ladies,"  he  went 
on  strangely,  with  no  pause.  "Miss  Moze,  will  you 
convey  my  sympathetic  respects  to  your  mother  and 
my  thanks  for  her  most  kind  hospitality.'*  My  grate- 
ful sympathies  to  yourself.  Good-bye,  Miss  In- 
gate. .  .  .  Er,  Miss  Ingate,  why  do  you  look  at  me 
in   that  peculiar  way?" 


THE  LEGACY  45 

"Well,  Mr.  Cowl,  you're  a  very  peculiar  man.  May 
I  ask  whether  you  were  born  in  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try.?" 

"At  Clacton,  Miss  Ingate,"  answered  Mr.  Cowl  im- 
perturbably. 

"I  knew  it,"  said  Miss  Ingate,  and  the  corners  of 
her  lips  went  sardonically  down. 

"Please  don't  trouble  to  come  downstairs,"  said  Mr. 
Cowl.  "My  bag  is  packed.  I  have  tipped  the  parlour- 
maid, and  there  is  just  time  to  catch  the  train." 

He  departed,  leaving  the  two  women  speechless. 

After  a  moment.  Miss  Ingate  said  drily: 

"He  was  so  very  peculiar  I  knew  he  must  belong 
to  these   parts." 

"How  did  he  know  I  left  my  blue  frock  at  Miss 
Pannell's.?"  cried  Audrey.     "I  never  told  him." 

"He  must  have  been  eavesdropping!"  cried  Miss  In- 
gate. "He  never  found  the  key  in  your  frock.  He 
must  have  found  it  here  somewhere;  I  feel  sure  it  must 
have  dropped  by  the  safe,  and  I  lay  anything  he  had 
opened  the  safe  before  and  read  the  will  before.  I 
could  tell  from  the  way  he  looked." 

"And  why  should  he  suppose  that  I'd  the  key.?" 
Audrey  put  in. 

"Eavesdropping.  I'm  convinced  that  man  knows  too 
much."  (Audrey  reddened  once  more.)  "I  believe 
he  thought  you'd  be  capable  of  burning  the  will.  That's 
why  he  made  you  handle  it  in  his  presence  and  mine." 

"Well,  Winnie,"  said  Audrey,  "I  think  you  might 
have  told  him  all  that  while  he  was  here,  instead  of 
letting  him  go  off  so  triumphant." 

"I  did  begin  to,"  said  Miss  Ingate  with  a  snigger. 
"But  you  wouldn't  back  me  up,  you  little  coward." 

"I  shall  never  be  a  coward  again!"  Audrey  said 
violently. 


46  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

They  read  the  will  together.  They  had  no  difficulty 
at  all  in  comprehending  it  now  that  they  were  alone. 

"I  do  think  it's  a  horrid  shame  Aguilar  should  have 
that  ten  pounds,"  said  Audrey.  "But  otherwise  I  don't 
care.  You  can't  guess  how  relieved  I  am,  Winnie.  I 
imagined  the  most  dreadful  things.  I  don't  know  what 
I  imagined.  But  now  we  shall  have  all  the  property 
and  everything,  just  as  much  as  ever  there  was,  and 
only  me  and  mother  to  spend  it."  Audrey  danced  an 
embryonic  jig.  "Won't  I  keep  mother  in  order!  Win- 
nie, I  shall  make  her  go  with  me  to  Paris.  I've  always 
wanted  to  know  that  Madame  Piriac — she  does  write 
such  funny  English  in  her  letters." 

"What's  that  you're  saying.^"  murmured  Miss  In- 
gate,  who  had  picked  up  the  letter  which  Mr.  Cowl  had 
laid  on  the  small  table. 

"I  say  I  shall  make  mother  go  to  Paris  with  me." 

"You  won't,"  said  Miss  Ingate.  "Because  she  won't 
go.  I  know  your  mother  better  than  you  do.  .  .  . 
Oh!  Audrey!" 

Audrey  saw  Miss  Ingate's  face  turn  scarlet  from  the 
roots  of  her  hair  to  her  chin. 

Miss  Ingate  had  dropped  the  letter.  Audrey 
snatched  it. 

"My  dear  Moze,"  the  letter  ran.  "I  send  you  here- 
with a  report  of  the  meeting  of  the  Great  Mexican  Oil 
Company  at  New  York.  You  will  see  that  they  duly 
authorised  the  contract  by  wliich  the  Zacatecas  Oil 
Corporation  transfers  our  property  to  them  in  ex- 
change for  shares  at  the  rate  of  four  Great  Mexican 
shares  for  one  Zacatecas  share.  As  each  of  the  Devel- 
opment Syndicate  shares  represents  ten  of  the  Cor- 
poration shares,  and  as  on  my  recommendation  you 
put  £4,500  into  the  Syndicate,  you  will  therefore  own 
180,000  Great  Mexican  shares.     They  are  at  present 


THE  LEGACY  47 

above  par.  Mark  my  words,  they  will  be  worth  from 
seven  to  ten  dollars  apiece  in  a  year's  time.  I  think 
you  now  owe  me  a  good  turn,  eh.f"' 

The  letter  was  signed  with  a  name  unknown  to  either 
of  them,  and  it  was  dated  from  Coleman  Street,  E.G. 


CHAPTER    IV 


MR.    FOULGER 


Half  an  hour  later  the  woman  and  the  girl,  still  in 
the  study  and  severely  damaged  by  the  culminating 
events  of  Mr.  Cowl's  visit,  were  almost  prostrated  by 
the  entirely  unexpected  announcement  of  the  arrival  of 
Mr.  Foulger.  Mr.  Foulger  was  the  late  Mr.  Moze's 
solicitor  from  Chelmsford.  Audrey's  first  thought  was : 
"Has  heaven  telegraphed  to  him  on  my  behalf?"  But 
her  next  was  that  all  the  solicitors  in  the  world  would 
now  be  useless  in  the  horrible  calamity  that  had  be- 
fallen. 

It  is  to  be  noted  that  Audrey  was  no  worse  off  than 
before  the  discovery  of  the  astounding  value  of  the 
Zacatecas  shares.  The  Moze  property,  inherited 
through  generations  and  consisting  mainly  in  farms 
and  tithe-rents,  was  not  in  the  slightest  degree  im- 
paired. On  the  contrary  the  steady  progress  of  agri- 
culture in  Essex  indicated  that  its  yield  must  improve 
with  years.  Nevertheless  Audrey  felt  as  though  she 
and  her  mother  were  ruined,  and  as  though  the  Na- 
tional Reformation  Society  had  been  guilty  of  a  fear- 
ful crime  against  a  widow  and  an  orphan.  The  lovely 
vision  of  immeasurable  wealth  had  flashed  and  scintil- 
lated for  a  month  in  front  of  her  dazzled  eyes, — and 
then  blackness,  nothingness,  the  dark  void!  She  knew 
that  she  would  never  be  happy  again. 

And  she  thought,  scornfully:  "How  could  father 
have  been  so  preoccupied  and  so  gloomy,  with  all  those 

48 


MR.  FOULGER  49 

riches?"  She  could  not  conceive  anybody  as  rich  as 
her  father  secretly  was  not  being  day  and  night  in  a 
condition  of  pure  delight  at  the  whole  spectacle  of 
existence.  Her  opinion  of  Mathew  Moze  fell  lower 
than  ever,  and  fell  finally. 

The  parlourmaid,  in  a  negligence  of  attire  indicating 
that  no  man  was  left  alive  in  the  house,  waited  at  the 
door  of  the  study  to  learn  whether  or  not  Miss  Moze 
was  in. 

"You'll  have  to  see  him,"  said  Miss  Ingate  firmly. 
"It'll  be  all  right.  I've  known  him  all  my  life.  He's 
a  very  nice  man." 

After  the  parlourmaid  had  gone,  and  while  Audrey 
was  upbraiding  her  for  not  confessing  earlier  her  ac- 
quaintance with  Mr.  Foulger,  Miss  Ingate  added: 

"Only  his  wife  has  a  wooden  leg." 

Then  Mr.  Foulger  entered.  He  was  a  shortish  man 
of  about  fifty,  with  a  paunch,  but  not  otherwise  fat ; 
dressed  like  a  sportsman.  He  trod  very  lightly.  The 
expression  on  his  ruddy  face  was  amiable  but  extremely 
alert,  hardening  at  intervals  into  decision  or  caution. 
He  saw  before  him  a  nervous,  frowning  girl  in  inelegant 
black,  and  Miss  Ingate  with  a  curious  look  in  her  eyes 
and  a  sardonic  and  timid  twitching  of  her  lips.  For 
an  instant  he  was  discountenanced;  but  he  at  once 
recovered,  accomplishing  a  bright  salute. 

"Here  you  are  at  last,  Mr.  Foulger!"  Miss  Ingate 
responded.     "But  you're  too  late." 

These  mysterious  words,  and  the  speechlessness  of 
Audrey,  upset  him  again. 

"I  was  away  in  Somersetshire  for  a  little  fishing,"  he 
said,  after  he  had  deplored  the  death  of  Mr.  Moze,  the 
illness  of  Mrs.  Moze,  and  the  bereavement  of  Miss 
Moze,  and  had  congratulated  Miss  Moze  on  the  pro- 
tective friendship  of  his  old  friend.  Miss  Ingate.     "I 


50  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

was  away  for  a  little  fishing,  and  I  only  heard  the  sad 
news  when  I  got  back  home  at  noon  to-day.  I  came 
over  at  once."  He  cleared  his  throat  and  looked  first 
at  Audrey  and  then  at  Miss  Ingate.  He  felt  that  he 
ought  to  be  addressing  Audrey,  but  somehow  he  could 
not  help  addressing  Miss  Ingate  instead.  His  grey 
legs  were  spread  abroad  as  he  sat  very  erect  on  a  chair, 
and  between  them  his  dependent  paunch  found  a  com- 
fortable space  for  itself. 

"You  must  have  been  getting  anxious  about  the  will. 
I  have  brought  it  with  me,"  he  said.  He  drew  a  white 
document  from  the  breast-pocket  of  his  cutaway  coat, 
and  he  perched  a  pair  of  eyeglasses  carelessly  on  his 
nose.  "It  was  executed  before  your  birth.  Miss  Moze. 
But  a  will  keeps  like  wine.  The  whole  of  the  property 
of  every  description  is  left  to  Mrs.  Moze,  and  she  is 
sole  executor.  If  she  should  predecease  the  testator, 
then  everything  is  left  to  his  child  or  children.  Not 
perhaps  a  very  business-like  will — a  will  likely  to  lead 
to  unforeseen  complications,  but  the  sort  of  will  that 
a  man  in  the  first  flush  of  marriage  often  does  make, 
and  there  is  no  stopping  him.  Your  father  had  almost 
every  quality,  but  he  was  not  businesslike — if  I  may 
say  so  with  respect.  However,  I  confess  that  for  the 
present  I  see  no  difficulties.  Of  course  the  death  duties 
will  have  to  be  paid,  but  your  father  always  kept  a 
considerable  amount  of  money  at  call.  When  I  say 
^considerable,'  I  mean  several  thousands.  That  was  a 
point  on  which  he  and  I  had  many  discussions." 

Mr.  Foulgcr  glanced  around  with  satisfaction.  Al- 
ready the  prospect  of  legal  business  and  costs  had 
brought  about  a  change  in  his  official  demeanour  of 
an  adviser  truly  bereaved  by  the  death  of  a  client. 
He  saw  the  young  girl,  gazing  fiercely  at  the  carpet, 
suddenly  begin  to  weep.     This  phenomenon,  to  which 


MR.  FOULGER  51 

he  was  not  unaccustomed,  did  not  by  itself  disturb  him ; 
but  the  face  of  Miss  Ingate  gave  him  strange  appre- 
hensions, which  reached  a  chmax  when  Miss  Ingate, 
obviously  not  at  all  at  her  ease,  muttered: 

"There  is  a  later  will,  Mr.  Foulger.  It  was  made 
last  year." 

"I  see,"  he  breathed,  scarcely  above  a  whisper. 

He  thought  he  did  see.  He  thought  he  understood 
why  he  had  been  kept  waiting,  why  Mrs.  Moze  pre- 
tended to  be  ill,  why  the  girl  had  frowned,  why  the 
naively  calm  Miss  Ingate  was  in  such  a  state  of  nerves. 
The  explanation  was  that  he  was  not  wanted.  The 
explanation  was  that  Mr.  Moze  had  changed  his  solici- 
tor. His  face  hardened,  for  he  and  his  uncle  between 
them  had  "acted"  for  the  Moze  family  for  oyer  seventy 
years. 

He  rose  from  the  chair. 

"Then  I  need  not  trouble  you  any  longer,"  he  said 
in  a  firm  tone,  and  turned  with  real  dignity  to  leave. 

He  was  exceedingly  astonished  when  with  one  swift 
movement  Audrey  rose,  and  flashed  like  a  missile  to  the 
door,  and  stood  with  her  back  to  it.  The  fact  was  that 
Audrey  had  just  remembered  her  vow  never  again  to 
be  afraid  of  anybody.  When  Miss  Ingate  with  extraor- 
dinary agility  also  jumped  up  and  approached  him,  he 
apprehended,  recalling  rumours  of  Miss  Ingate's  ad- 
vanced feminism,  that  the  fate  of  an  anti-suffragette 
cabinet  minister  might  be  awaiting  him,  and  he  pre- 
pared his  defence. 

"You  mustn't  go,"  said  Miss  Ingate. 

"You  are  my  solicitor,  whatever  mother  may  say, 
and  you  mustn't  go,"  added  Audrey  in  a  soft  voice. 

The  man  was  entranced.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he 
would  have  a  tale  to  tell  and  to  re-tell  at  his  club  for 


52  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

years,  about  "a  certain  fair  client  who  shall  be  name- 
less." 

The  next  minute  he  had  heard  a  somewhat  romantic, 
if  not  hysterical,  version  of  the  facts  of  the  case,  and 
he  was  perusing  the  original  documents.  By  chance 
he  read  first  the  letter  about  the  Zacatecas  shares. 
That  Mathew  Moze  had  made  a  will  without  his  aid 
was  a  shock;  that  Mathew  Moze  had  invested  money 
without  his  advice  was  another  shock  quite  as  severe. 
But  he  knew  the  status  of  the  Great  Mexican  Oil  Com- 
pany, and  his  countenance  lighted  as  he  reahsed  the 
rich  immensity  of  the  business  of  proving  the  will  and 
devolving  the  estate;  his  costs  would  run  to  the  most 
agreeable  figures.  As  soon  as  he  glanced  at  the  testa- 
ment which  Mr.  Cowl  had  found,  he  muttered,  with 
satisfaction  and  disdain: 

"Hm!     He  made  this  himself." 

And  he  gazed  at  it  compassionately,  as  a  cabinet- 
maker might  gaze  at  a  piece  of  amateur  fretwork. 

Standing,  he  read  it  slowly  and  with  extreme  care. 
And  when  he  had  finished  he  casually  remarked,  in  the 
classic  legal  phrase : 

"It  isn't  worth  the  paper  it's  written  on." 
Then  he  sat  down  again,  and  his  neat  paunch  re- 
sumed its  niche  between  his  legs.     He  knew  that  he  had 
made  a  tremendous  effect. 

"But — but "  Miss  Ingate  began. 

"Not  worth  the  paper  it's  written  on,"  he  repeated. 
"There  is  only  one  witness,  and  there  ought  to  be  two, 
and  even  the  one  witness  is  a  bad  one — Aguilar,  because 
he  profits  under  the  will.  He  would  have  to  give  up 
his  legacy  before  his  attestation  could  count,  and  even 
then  it  would  be  no  good  alone.  Mr.  Moze  has  not  even 
expressly  revoked  the  old  will.  If  there  hadn't  been  a 
previous  will,  and  if  Aguilar  was  a  thoroughly  reliable 


MR.  FOULGER  53 

man,  and  if  the  family  had  wished  to  uphold  the  new 
will,  I  dare  say  the  Court  might  have  pronounced  for 
it.  But  under  the  circumstances  it  hasn't  the  ghost  of 
a  chance." 

"But  won't  the  National  Reformation  Society  make 
trouble.^"  demanded  Miss  Ingate  faintly. 

"Let  'em  try!"  said  Mr.  Foulger,  who  wished  that 
the  National  Reformation  Society  would  indeed  try. 

Even  as  he  articulated  the  words,  he  was  aware  of 
Audrey  coming  towards  him  from  the  direction  of  the 
door ;  he  was  aware  of  her  black  frock  and  of  her  white 
face,  with  its  bulging  forehead  and  its  deliciously  insig- 
nificant nose.     She  held  out  her  hand. 

"You  are  a  dear !"  she  whispered. 

Her  lips  seemed  to  aim  uncertainly  for  his  face.  Did 
they  just  touch,  with  exquisite  contact,  his  bristly 
chin,  or  was  it  a  divine  illusion.''  .  .  .  She  blushed  in 
a  very  marked  manner.  He  blinked,  and  his  happy 
blinking  seemed  to  say:  "Only  wills  drawn  by  me  are 
genuine.  .  .  .  Didn't  I  tell  you  Mr.  Moze  was  not  a 
man  of  business.'"' 

Audrey  ran  to  Miss  Ingate. 

Mr.  Foulger,  suddenly  ashamed,  and  determined  to 
be  a  lawyer,  said  sharply : 

"Has  Mrs.  Moze  made  a  will,?" 

"Mother  made  a  will?     Oh  no!" 

"Then  she  should  make  one  at  once,  in  your  favour, 
of  course.     No  time  should  be  lost." 

"But  Mrs.  Moze  is  ill  in  bed,"  protested  Miss  In- 
gate. 

"All  the  more  reason  why  she  should  make  a  will. 
It  may  save  endless  trouble.  And  it  is  her  duty.  I 
shall  suggest  that  I  be  the  executor  and  trustee,  of 
course  with  the  usual  power  to  charge  costs."     His 


54  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

face  was  hard  again.  "You  will  thank  me  later  on, 
Miss  Moze,"  he  added. 

"Do  you  mean  now?"  shrilled  Miss  Ingate. 

"I  do,"  said  he.  "If  you  will  give  me  some  paper, 
we  might  go  to  her  at  once.  You  can  be  one  of  the 
witnesses.  I  could  be  a  witness,  but  as  I  am  to  act 
under  the  will  for  a  consideration  somebody  else  would 
be  preferable." 

"I  should  suggest  Aguilar,"  answered  Miss  Ingate, 
the  comers  of  her  lips  dropping. 

Miss  Ingate  went  first,  to  prepare  Mrs.  Moze. 

When  Audrey  was  alone  in  the  study — she  had  not 
even  offered  to  accompany  her  elders  to  the  bedroom — • 
she  made  a  long  sound :  "Ooo !"  Then  she  gave  a  leap 
and  stood  still,  staring  out  of  the  window  at  the 
estuary.  She  tried  to  force  her  mood  to  the  colour  of 
her  dress,  but  the  sense  of  propriety  was  insufficient 
for  the  task.  The  magnificence  of  all  the  world  was 
unfolding  itself  to  her  soul.  Events  had  hitherto  so 
dizzyingly  beaten  down  upon  her  head  that  she  had 
scarcely  been  conscious  of  feeling.  Now  she  luxu- 
riously felt.  "I  am  at  last  born,"  she  thought.  "Mir- 
acles have  happened.  .  .  .  It's  incredible.  ...  I 
can  do  what  I  like  with  mother.  .  .  .  But  if  I  don't 
take  care  I  shall  die  of  relief  this  very  moment !" 


CHAPTER  V 


THE    DEAD    HAND 


Audrey  was  wakened  up  that  night,  just  after  she 
had  gone  to  sleep,  by  a  touch  on  the  cheek.  Her 
mother,  palely  indistinct  in  the  darkness,  was  standing 
by  the  bedside.  She  wore  a  white  wrap  over  her  night 
attire,  and  the  customary  white  bandage  from  which 
emanated  a  faint  odour  of  eau  de  cologne,  was  around 
her  forehead. 

"Audrey,  darling,  I  must  speak  to  you." 

Instantly  Audrey  became  the  wise  directress  of  her 
poor  foolish  mother's  existence. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  with  firm  kindness,  "please  do 
go  back  to  bed  at  once.  This  sort  of  thing  is  simply 
frightful  for  your  neuralgia.  I'll  come  to  you  in  one 
moment." 

And  Mrs.  Moze  meekly  obeyed ;  she  had  gone  even 
before  Audrey  had  had  time  to  light  her  candle.  Aud- 
rey was  very  content  in  thus  being  able  to  control  her 
mother  and  order  everything  for  the  best.  She  guessed 
that  the  old  lady  had  got  some  idea  into  her  head  about 
the  property,  or  about  her  own  will,  or  about  the 
solicitor,  or  about  a  tombstone,  and  that  it  was  wor- 
rying her.  She  and  Miss  Ingate  (who  had  now  re- 
turned home)  had  had  a  very  extensive  palaver,  in  low 
voices  that  never  ceased,  after  the  triumphant  depar- 
ture of  Mr.  Foulger.  Audrey  had  cautiously  pro- 
tested; she  was  afraid  her  mother  would  be  fatigued, 
and  she  saw  no  reason  why  her  mother  should  be  ac- 

65 


56  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

quainted  with  all  the  details  of  a  complex  matter;  but 
the  gossiping  habit  of  a  quarter  of  a  century  was  too 
powerful  for  Audrey. 

In  the  large  parental  bedroom  the  only  light  was 
Audrey's  candle.  Mrs.  Moze  was  lying  on  the  right 
half  of  the  great  bed,  where  she  had  always  lain.  She 
might  have  lain  luxuriously  in  the  middle,  with  vast 
spaces  at  either  hand,  but  again  habit  was  too  pow- 
erful. 

The  girl,  all  in  white,  held  the  candle  higher,  and 
the  shadows  everywhere  shrunk  in  unison.  Mrs.  Moze 
blinked. 

"Put  the  candle  on  the  night-table,"  said  Mrs.  Moze 
curtly. 

Audrey  did  so.  The  bedroom,  for  her,  was  full  of 
the  souvenirs  of  parental  authority.  Her  first  recol- 
lections were  those  of  awe  in  regard  to  the  bedroom. 
And  when  she  thought  that  on  that  bed  she  had  been 
born,  she  had  a  very  queer  sensation. 

"I've  decided,"  said  Mrs.  Moze,  lying  on  her  back, 
and  looking  up  at  the  ceiling,  "I've  decided  that  your 
father's  wishes  must  be  obeyed." 

"What  about,  mother  .^"^ 

*'About  those  shares  going  to  the  National  Reforma- 
tion Society.  He  meant  them  to  go  and  they  must  go 
to  the  Society.  I've  thought  it  well  over  and  I've  quite 
decided.  I  didn't  tell  Miss  Ingate,  as  it  doesn't  con- 
cern her.     But  I  felt  I  must  tell  you  at  once." 

"Mother!"  cried  Audrey.  "Have  you  taken  leave 
of  your  senses.'^"  She  shivered;  the  room  was  very 
cold;  and  as  she  shivered  her  image  in  the  mirror  of 
the  wardrobe  sliivered,  and  also  her  shadow  that 
climbed  up  the  wall  and  bent  at  right-angles  at  the 
cornice  till  it  reached  the  middle  of  the  ceihng. 

Mrs.  Moze  replied  obstinately: 


THE  DEAD  HAND  5T 

"I've  not  taken  leave  of  my  senses,  and  I'll  thank 
you  to  remember  that  I'm  your  mother.  I  have  always 
carried  out  your  father's  wishes,  and  at  my  time  of 
life  I  can't  alter.  Your  father  was  a  very  wise  man. 
We  shall  be  as  well  off  as  we  always  were.  Better, 
because  I  can  save,  and  I  shall  save.  We  have  no  com- 
plaint to  make ;  I  should  have  no  excuse  for  disobeying 
your  father.  Everything  is  mine  to  do  as  I  wish  with 
it,  and  I  shall  give  the  shares  to  the  Society.  What 
the  shares  are  worth  can't  affect  my  duty.  Besides, 
perhaps  they  aren't  worth  anything.  I  always  under- 
stood that  things  like  that  were  always  jumping  up 
and  down,  and  generally  worthless  in  the  end.  .  .  . 
That's  all  I  wanted  to  tell  you." 

Why  did  Audrey  seize  the  candle  and  walk  straight 
out  of  the  bedroom,  leaving  darkness  behind  her.^  Was 
it  because  the  acuteness  of  her  feelings  drove  her  out, 
or  was  it  because  she  knew  instinctively  that  her 
mother's  decision  would  prove  to  be  immovable?  Per- 
haps both. 

She  dropped  back  into  her  own  bed  with  a  soundless 
sigh  of  exhaustion.  She  did  not  blow  out  the  candle, 
but  lay  staring  at  it.  Her  dream  was  annihilated.  She 
foresaw  an  interminable  weary  and  futile  future  in 
and  about  Moze,  and  her  mother  always  indisposed, 
always  fretful,  and  curiously  obstinate  in  weak- 
ness. But  Audrey,  despite  her  tragic  disillusion,  was 
less  desolated  than  made  solemn.  In  the  most  dis- 
turbing way  she  knew  herself  to  be  the  daughter 
of  her  father  and  her  mother;  and  she  comprehended 
that  her  destiny  could  not  be  broken  oflp  suddenly 
from  theirs.  She  was  touched  because  her  mother 
deemed  her  father  a  very  wise  man,  whereas  she, 
Audrey,  knew  that  he  was  nothing  of  the  sort.  She 
felt  sorry  for  both  of  them.     She  pitied  her  father,  and 


58  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

she  was  a  mother  to  her  mother.  Their  relations  to- 
gether, and  the  mystic  posthumous  spell  of  her  father 
over  her  mother,  impressed  her  profoundly.  .  .  .  And 
she  was  proud  of  herself  for  having  demonstrated  her 
courage  by  preventing  the  solicitor  from  running  away, 
and  extraordinarily  ashamed  of  her  sentimental  and 
brazen  behaviour  to  the  solicitor  afterwards.  These 
various  thoughts  mitigated  her  despair  as  she  gazed 
at  the  sinking  candle.  Nevertheless  her  dream  was 
annihilated. 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE    YOUNG    WIDOW 


It  was  early  October.  Audrey  stood  at  the  garden 
door  of  Flank  Hall. 

The  estuary,  in  all  the  colours  of  unsettled,  mild, 
bright  weather,  lay  at  her  feet  beneath  a  high  arch 
of  changing  blue  and  white.  The  capricious  wind  moved 
in  her  hair,  moved  in  the  rich  grasses  of  the  sea-wall, 
bent  at  a  curtseying  angle  the  red-sailed  barges,  put 
caps  on  the  waves  in  the  middle  distance,  and  drew 
out  into  long  horizontal  scarves  the  smoke  of  faint 
steamers  in  the  offing. 

Audrey  was  dressed  in  black,  but  her  raiment  had 
obviously  not  been  fashioned  in  the  village,  nor  even  at 
Colchester,  nor  yet  at  Ipswich,  that  great  and  stylish 
city.  She  looked  older;  she  certainly  had  acquired 
something  of  an  air  of  knowledge,  assurance,  domina- 
tion, sauciness,  and  challenge,  which  qualities  were  all 
partly  illustrated  in  her  large,  audacious  hat.  The 
spirit  which  the  late  Mr.  Moze  had  so  successfully  sup- 
pressed was  at  length  coming  to  the  surface  for  all 
beholders  to  see,  and  the  process  of  evolution  begun  at 
the  moment  when  Audrey  had  bounced  up  and  pre- 
vented an  authoritative  solicitor  from  leaving  the 
study  was  already  advanced.  Nevertheless  at  frequent 
intervals  Audrey's  eyes  changed,  and  she  seemed  for 
an  instant  to  be  a  very  naive,  very  ingenuous  and  wist- 
ful little  thing — and  this  though  she  had  reached  the 
age  of  twenty.  Perhaps  she  was  feeling  sorry  for  the 
girl  she  used  to  be. 

59 


60  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

And  no  doubt  she  was  also  thinking  of  her  mother, 
who  had  died  within  eight  hours  of  their  nocturnal  in- 
terview. The  death  of  Mrs.  Moze  surprised  every  one, 
except  possibly  Mrs.  Moze.  As  an  unsuspected  result  of 
the  operation  upon  her,  an  embolism  had  been  wander- 
ing in  her  veins ;  it  reached  the  brain,  and  she  expired, 
to  the  great  loss  of  the  National  Reformation  Society. 
Such  was  the  brief  and  simple  history.  When  Audrey 
stood  by  the  body,  she  had  felt  that  if  it  could  have 
saved  her  mother  she  would  have  enriched  the  National 
Reformation  Society  with  all  she  possessed. 

Gradually  the  sense  of  freedom  had  grown  para- 
mount in  her,  and  she  had  undertaken  the  enterprise 
of  completely  subduing  Mr.  Foulger  to  her  own  ends. 

The  back-hall  was  carpetless  and  pictureless,  and 
the  furniture  in  it  was  draped  in  grey-white.  Ever}' 
room  in  the  abode  was  in  the  same  state,  and,  since 
all  the  windows  were  shuttered,  every  room  lay  mori- 
bund in  a  ghostly  twilight.  Only  the  clocks  remained 
alive,  probably  thinking  themselves  immortal.  The 
breakfast-things  were  washed  up  and  stored  away.  The 
last  two  servants  had  already  gone.  Behind  Audrey, 
forming  a  hilly  background,  were  trunks  and  boxes,  a 
large  bunch  of  flowers  encased  in  paper,  and  a  case 
of  umbrellas  and  parasols;  the  whole  strikingly  new, 
and  every  single  item  except  the  flowers  labelled  "Paris 
via  Charing  Cross  and  Calais." 

Audrey  opened  her  black  Russian  satchel,  and  the 
purse  within  it.  Therein  were  a  little  compartment  full 
of  English  gold,  another  full  of  French  gold,  another  full 
of  multicoloured  French  bank-notes;  and  loose  in  the 
satchel  was  a  blue  book  of  credit-notes,  each  for  five 
hundred  francs  or  twenty  pounds — a  thick  book !  And 
she  would  not  have  minded  much  if  she  had  lost  the 


THE  YOUNG  WIDOW  61 

whole  satchel — it  would  be  so  easy  to  replace  the  satchel 
with  all  its  contents. 

Then  a  small  brougham  came  very  deliberately  up 
the  drive.  It  was  the  vehicle  in  which  Miss  Ingate 
went  her  ways ;  in  accordance  with  Miss  Ingate's  im- 
memorial command,  it  travelled  at  a  walking  pace  up 
all  the  hills  to  save  the  horse,  and  at  a  walking  pace 
down  all  hills  lest  the  horse  should  stumble  and  Miss 
Ingate  be  destroyed.  It  was  now  followed  by  a  lug- 
gage-cart, on  which  was  a  large  trunk. 

At  the  same  moment  Aguilar,  the  gardener,  ap- 
peared from  somewhere — he  who  had  been  robbed  of 
a  legacy  of  ten  pounds,  but  who  by  his  ruthless  and 
incontestable  integrity  had  secured  the  job  of  care- 
taker of  Flank  Hall. 

The  drivers  touched  their  hats  to  Audrey  and 
jumped  down,  and  Miss  Ingate,  with  a  blue  veil  tied 
like  a  handkerchief  round  her  bonnet  and  chin — sign 
that  she  was  a  traveller — emerged  from  the  brougham, 
sardonically  smiling  at  her  own  and  everybody's  ex- 
pense, and  too  excited  to  be  able  to  give  greetings.  The 
three  men  started  to  move  the  trunks,  and  the  two 
women  whispered  together  in  the  back-hall. 

"Audrey,"  demanded  Miss  Ingate  with  a  start,  "what 
are  those  rings  on  your  finger?" 

Audrey  replied: 

"One's  a  wedding  ring  and  the  other's  a  mourning- 
ring.  I  bought  them  yesterday  at  Colchester.  .  .  . 
Hsh !"  She  stilled  further  exclamations  from  Miss 
Ingate  until  the  men  were  out  of  the  hall. 

"Look  here  !  Quick !"  she  whispered,  hastily  unlock- 
ing a  large  hat-case  that  was  left.  And  Miss  Ingate 
looked  and  saw  a  black  toque,  entirely  unsuitable  for 
a  young  girl,  and  a  widow's  veil. 


62  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"I  look  bewitching  in  them,"  said  Audrey,  re-locking 
the  case. 

"But,  my  child,  what  does  it  mean?" 

"It  means  that  I'm  not  silly  enough  to  go  to  Paris 
as  a  girl.  I've  had  more  than  enough  of  being  a  girl. 
I'm  determined  to  arrive  in  Paris  as  a  young  widow. 
It  will  be  much  better  in  every  way,  and  far  easier  for 
you.  In  fact,  you'll  have  no  chaperoning  to  do  at 
all.  I  shall  be  the  chaperone.  Now  don't  say  you 
won't  go,  because  you  will." 

"You  ought  to  have  told  me  before." 

"No,  I  oughtn't.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
foolish." 

"But  who  are  you  the  widow  of?" 

"Hurrah!"  cried  Audrey.  "You  are  a  sport,  Win- 
nie! Ill  tell  you  all  the  interesting  details  in  the 
train." 

In  another  minute  Aguilar,  gloomy  and  unbending, 
had  received  the  keys  of  Flank  Hall,  and  the  procession 
crunched  down  the  drive  on  its  way  to  the  station. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE    CIGARETTE    GIRL 


Audrey  did  not  deem  that  she  had  begun  truly  to 
live  until  the  next  morning,  when  they  left  London, 
after  having  passed  a  night  in  the  Charing  Cross 
Hotel.  During  several  visits  to  London  in  the  course 
of  the  summer  Audrey  had  learnt  something  about  the 
valuelessncss  of  money  in  a  metropolis  chieiSy  inhabited 
by  people  who  were  positively  embarrassed  by  their 
riches.  She  knew,  for  example,  that  money  being  very 
plentiful  and  stylish  hats  very  rare,  large  quantities 
of  money  had  to  be  given  for  infinitesimal  quantities  of 
hats.  The  big  and  glittering  shops  were  full  of  people 
whose  pockets  bulged  with  money  which  they  were  ob- 
viously anxious  to  part  with  in  order  to  obtain  goods, 
while  the  proud  shop-assistants,  secure  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  money  was  naught  and  goods  were  every- 
thing, did  their  utmost,  by  hauteur  and  steely  nega- 
tives, to  render  any  transaction  impossible.  It  was 
the  result  of  a  mysterious  "Law  of  Exchange."  She 
was  aware  of  this.  She  had  lost  her  childhood's  naive 
illusions  about  the  sovereignty  of  money. 

Nevertheless  she  received  one  or  two  shocks  on  the 
journey,  which  was  planned  upon  the  most  luxurious 
scale  that  the  imagination  of  Messrs.  Thomas  Cook  & 
Son  could  conceive.  There  was  four  pounds  and  nine- 
pence  to  pay  for  excess  luggage  at  Charing  Cross. 
Half  a  year  earlier  four  pounds  would  have  bought  all 
the  luggage  she  could  have  got  together.     She  very 

63 


64i  THE  LION*S  SHARE 

nearly  said  to  the  clerk  at  the  window:  "Don't  you 
mean  shillings?"  But  in  spite  of  nervousness,  blush- 
ings,  and  all  manner  of  sensitive  reactions  to  new  ex- 
periences, her  natural  sangfroid  and  instinctive  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  saved  her  from  such  a  terrible  lapse, 
and  she  put  down  a  bank-note  without  the  slightest 
hint  that  she  was  wondering  whether  it  would  not  be 
more  advantageous  to  throw  the  luggage  away. 

The  boat  was  crowded  and  the  sea  and  wind  full  of 
menace.  Fighting  their  way  along  the  deck  after  laden 
porters,  Audrey  and  Miss  Ingate  simultaneously  espied 
the  Private  Cabin  list  hung  in  a  conspicuous  spot. 
They  perused  it  as  eagerly  as  if  it  had  been  the  account 
of  a  cause  ccUhrc.  Among  the  list  were  two  English 
lords,  an  Honourable  Mrs.,  a  baroness  with  a  Hun- 
garian name,  several  Teutonic  names,  and  Mrs.  Mon- 
creifF. 

Audrey  blushed  deeply  at  the  sign  of  Mrs.  Mon- 
creifF,  for  slie  was  I\Irs.  Moncreiff.  Behind  the  veil, 
and  with  the  touch  of  white  in  her  toque,  she  might 
have  been  any  age  up  to  twenty-eight  or  so.  It  would 
have  been  impossible  to  say  that  she  was  a  young  girl, 
that  she  was  not  versed  in  the  world,  that  she  had  not 
the  whole  catechism  of  men  at  her  finger-ends.  All  who 
glanced  at  her  glanced  again — with  sympathy  and  cu- 
riosity; and  the  second  glance  pricked  Audrey's  con- 
science, making  her  feel  like  a  thief.  But  her  moods 
were  capricious.  At  one  moment  she  was  a  thief,  a 
clumsy  fraud,  an  ignorant  ninny  and  a  suitable  prey 
for  the  secret  police;  and  at  the  next  she  was  very 
clever,  self-confident,  equal  to  the  situation,  and  enjoy- 
ing the  situation  more  than  she  had  ever  enjoyed  any- 
thing and  determined  to  prolong  the  situation  indef- 
initely. 

The  cabin  was  very  spacious,  yet  not  more  so  than 


THE  CIGARETTE  GIRL  65 

was  proper,  considering  that  the  rent  of  it  came  to 
about  sixpence  a  minute.  There  was  room,  even  after 
all  the  packages  were  stowed,  for  both  of  them  to  lie 
down.  But  instead  of  lying  down  they  eagerly  in- 
spected the  little  abode.  They  found  a  lavatory  basin 
with  hot  and  cold  water  taps,  but  no  hot  water  and  no 
cold  water,  no  soap  and  no  towels.  And  they  found 
a  crystal  water-bottle,  but  it  was  empty.  Then  a  stew- 
ard came  and  asked  them  if  they  wanted  anything,  and 
because  they  were  miserable  poltroons  they  smiled  and 
said  No.  They  were  secretly  convinced  that  all  the 
other  private  cabins,  inhabited  by  titled  persons  and 
by  financiers,  were  superior  to  their  cabin,  and  that  the 
captain  of  the  steamer  had  fobbed  them  off  with  an  imi- 
tation of  a  real  cabin. 

Then  it  was  that  Miss  Ingate,  who  since  Charing 
Cross  had  been  a  little  excited  by  a  glimpsed  newspaper 
contents-bill  indicating  suffragette  riots  that  morning, 
perceived,  through  the  open  door  of  the  cabin,  a  most 
beautiful  and  most  elegant  girl,  attired  impeccably  in 
that  ritualistic  garb  of  travel  which  the  truly  cos- 
mopolitan wear  on  combined  rail-and-ocean  journeys 
and  on  no  other  occasions.  It  was  at  once  apparent 
that  the  celestial  creature  had  put  on  that  special  hat, 
that  special  veil,  that  special  cloak,  and  those  special 
gloves  because  she  was  deeply  aware  of  what  was  cor- 
rect, and  that  she  would  not  put  them  on  again  until 
destiny  took  her  again  across  the  sea,  and  that  if  des- 
tiny never  did  take  her  again  across  the  sea  never 
again  would  she  show  herself  in  the  vestments,  whose 
correctness  was  only  equalled  by  their  expenslveness. 

The  young  woman,  however,  took  no  thought  of  her 
impressive  clothes.  She  was  existing  upon  quite  an- 
other plane.  Miss  Ingate,  preoccupied  by  the  wrongs 
and  perils  of  her  sex,  and  momentarily  softened  out 


66  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

of  her  sardonic  Irony,  suspected  that  they  might  be 
in  the  presence  of  a  victim  of  oppression  or  neglect. 
The  victim  lay  half  prone  upon  the  hard  wooden  seat 
against  the  ship's  rail.  Her  dark  eyes  opened  piteously 
at  times,  and  her  exquisite  profile,  surmounted  by  the 
priceless  hat  all  askew,  made  a  silhouette  now  against 
the  sea  and  now  against  the  distant  white  cliffs  of 
Albion,  according  to  the  fearful  heaving  of  the  ship. 
Spray  occasionally  dashed  over  her.  She  heeded  it 
not.  A  few  feet  further  off  she  would  have  been 
sheltered  by  a  weather-awning,  but,  clinging  fiercely 
to  the  rail,  she  would  not  move. 

Then  a  sharp  squall  of  rain  broke,  but  she  entirely 
ignored  the  rain. 

The  next  moment  Miss  Ingate  and  Audrey,  rushing 
forth,  had  gently  seized  her  and  drawn  her  into  their 
cabin.  They  might  have  succoured  other  martyrs  to 
the  modem  passion  for  moving  about,  for  there  were 
many ;  but  they  chose  this  particular  martyr  because 
she  was  so  wondrously  dressed,  and  also  perhaps  a 
little  because  she  was  so  young.  As  she  lay  on  the 
cabin  sofa  she  looked  still  younger;  she  looked  a  child. 
Yet  when  Miss  Ingate  removed  her  gloves  in  order  to 
rub  those  chill,  fragile,  and  miraculously  manicured 
hands,  a  wedding-ring  was  revealed.  The  wedding- 
ring  rendered  her  intensely  romantic  in  the  eyes  of 
Audrey  and  Miss  Ingate,  who  both  thought,  in  private: 

"She  must  be  the  wife  of  one  of  those  lords !" 

Every  detail  of  her  raiment,  as  she  was  put  at  her 
ease,  showed  her  to  be  clothed  in  precisely  the  manner 
which  Audrey  and  Miss  Ingate  thought  peeresses 
always  were  clothed.  Hence,  being  English,  they 
mingled  respect  with  their  solacing  pity.  Neverthe- 
less, their  respect  was  tempered  by  a  peculiar  pride, 
for  both  of  them,  in  taldng  lemonade  on  the  Pullman, 


THE  CIGARETTE  GIRL  67 

had  taken  therewith  a  certain  preventive  or  remedy 
which  made  them  loftily  indifferent  to  the  heaving  of 
ships  and  the  eccentricities  of  the  sea.  The  specific 
had  done  all  that  was  claimed  for  it — which  was  a 
great  deal — so  much  so  that  they  felt  themselves  super- 
women  among  a  cargo  of  flaccid  and  feeble  sub-females. 
And  they  grew  charmingly   conceited. 

"Am  I  in  my  cabin?"  murmured  the  martyr,  about 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  Miss  Ingate,  having  ob- 
tained soda-water,  had  administered  to  her  a  dose  of 
the  miraculous  specific. 

Her  delicious  cheeks  were  now  a  delicate  crimson. 
But  they  had  been  of  a  delicate  crimson  throughout. 

"No,"  said  Audrey.  "You're  in  ours.  Which  is 
yours  ?" 

"It's  on  the  other  side  of  the  ship,  then.  I  came 
out  for  a  little  air.  But  I  couldn't  get  back.  I'd  just 
as  lief  have  died  as  shift  from  that  seat  out  there  by 
the  railings." 

Something  in  the  accent,  something  in  those  fine 
English  words  "hef"  and  "shift",  destroyed  in  the 
minds  of  Audrey  and  Miss  Ingate  the  agreeable  notion 
that  they  had  a  peeress  on  their  hands. 

"Is  your  husband  on  board?"  asked  Audrey. 
'He  just  is,"  was  the  answer.     "He's  in  our  cabin." 
'Shall  I  fetch  him?"  Miss  Ingate  suggested.     The 
corners  of  her  lips  had  begun  to  fall  once  more. 

"Will  you?"  said  the  young  woman.  "It's  Lord 
Southminster.     I'm  Lady  Southminster." 

The  two  saviours  were  thrilled.  Each  felt  that  she 
had  misinterpreted  the  accent,  and  that  probably 
peeresses  did  habitually  use  such  words  as  "lief"  and 
"shift."  The  corners  of  Miss  Ingate's  lips  rose  to 
their  proper  position. 

"I'll  look  for  the  number  on  the  cabin  list,"  said  she 


"] 


68  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

hastily,  and  went  forth  with  trembling  to  summon  the 
peer. 

As  Audrey,  alone  in  the  cabin  with  Lady  South- 
minster,  bent  curiously  over  the  prostrate  form,  Lady 
Southminster  exclaimed  with  an  air  of  child-like 
admiration : 

"You're  real  ladies,  you  are !" 

And  Audrey  felt  old  and  experienced.  She  decided 
that  Lady  Southminster  could  not  be  more  than  seven- 
teen, and  it  seemed  to  be  about  half  a  century  since 
Audrey  was  seventeen. 

"He  can't  come,"  announced  Miss  Ingate  breath- 
lessly, returning  to  the  cabin,  and  supporting  herself 
against  the  door  as  the  solid  teak  sank  under  her  feet. 
"Oh  yes !  He's  there  all  right.  It  was  number  12. 
I've  seen  him.  I  told  him,  but  I  don't  think  he  heard 
me, — to  understand,  that  is.  If  you  ask  me,  he  couldn't 
come  if  forty  wives  sent  for  him." 

"Oh,  couldn't  he !"  observed  Lady  Southminster, 
sitting  up.     "Couldn't  he  !" 

When  the  boat  was  within  ten  minutes  of  France, 
the  remedy  had  had  such  an  effect  upon  her  that  she 
could  walk  about.  Accompanied  by  Audrey  she  man- 
aged to  work  her  way  round  the  cabin-deck  to  No.  12. 
It  was  empty,  save  for  hand-luggage!  The  two  girls 
searched,  as  well  as  they  could,  the  whole  crowded  ship 
for  Lord  Southminster,  and  found  him  not.  Lady 
Southminster  neither  fainted  nor  wept.  She  merely 
said: 

"Oh !     All  right !     If  that's  it.  .  .  .    !" 

Hand  luggage  was  being  collected.  But  Lady  South- 
minster would  not  collect  hers,  nor  allow  it  to  be 
collected.  She  agreed  with  Miss  Ingate  and  Audrey 
that  her  husband  must  ultimately  reappear  either  on 
the  quay  or  in  the  train.    While  they  were  all  standing 


THE  CIGARETTE  GIRL  69 

huddled  together  in  the  throng  waiting  for  the  gang- 
way to  put  ashore,  she  said  in  a  low  casual  tone, 
a  propos  of  nothing: 

"I  only  married  him  the  day  before  yesterday.  I 
don't  know  whether  you  know,  but  I  used  to  make 
cigarettes  in  Constantinopoulos's  window  in  Piccadilly. 
I  don't  see  why  I  should  be  ashamed  of  it,  d'you?" 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Miss  Ingate.  "But  it  is  rather 
romantic,  isn't  it,  Audrey,?" 

Despite  the  terrific  interest  of  the  adventure  of  the 
cigarette  girl,  disappointment  began  immediately  after 
landing.  This  France,  of  which  Audrey  had  heard 
so  much  and  dreamed  so  much,  was  a  very  ramshackle 
and  untidy  and  onc-liorse  affair.  The  custom-house 
was  rather  like  a  battlefield  without  any  rules  of  war- 
fare; the  scene  in  the  refreshment-room  was  rather 
like  a  sack  after  a  battle ;  the  station  was  a  desert  with 
odd  files  of  people  here  and  there ;  the  platforms  were 
ridiculous,  and  you  wanted  a  pair  of  steps  to  get  up 
into  the  train.  Whatever  romance  there  might  be  in 
France  had  been  brought  by  Audrey  in  her  secret  heart 
and  by  Lady  Southminster. 

Audrey  had  come  to  France,  and  she  was  going  to 
Paris,  solely  because  of  a  vision  which  had  been  created 
in  her  by  the  letters  and  by  the  photographs  of 
Madame  Piriac.  Although  Madame  Piriac  and  she 
had  absolutely  no  tie  of  blood,  Madame  Piriac  being 
the  daughter  by  a  first  husband  of  the  French  widow 
who  became  the  first  Mrs.  Moze — and  speedily  died, 
Audrey  persisted  privately  in  regarding  Madame 
Piriac  as  a  kind  of  elder  sister.  She  f^lt  a  very 
considerable  esteem  for  Madame  Piriac,  upon  whom 
she  had  never  set  eyes,  and  Madame  Piriac  had  cer- 
tainly given  her  the  impression  that  France  was 
to    England    what    paradise    is    to    purgatory.    Fur- 


70  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

ther,  Audrey  had  fallen  in  love  with  Madame 
Piriac's  portraits,  whose  elegance  was  superb.  And 
yet,  too,  Audrey  was  jealous  of  Madame  Piriac,  and 
especially  so  since  the  attainment  of  freedom  and 
wealth.  Madame  Piriac  had  most  warmly  invited  her, 
after  the  death  of  Mrs.  Moze,  to  pay  a  long  visit  to 
Paris  as  a  guest  in  her  home.  Audrey  had  declined — 
from  jealousy.  She  would  not  go  to  Madame  Piriac's 
as  a  raw  girl,  overdone  with  money,  who  could  only 
speak  one  language  and  who  knew  nothing  at  all  of 
this  our  planet.  She  would  go,  if  she  went,  as  a  young 
woman  of  the  world  who  could  hold  her  own  in  any 
drawing-room,  be  it  Madame  Piriac's  or  another. 
Hence  Miss  Ingate  had  obtained  the  address  of  a  Paris 
boarding-house,  and  one  or  two  preliminary  introduc- 
tions from  political  friends  in  London. 

Well,  France  was  not  equal  to  its  reputation ;  and 
Miss  Ingate's  sardonic  smile  seemed  to  be  saying:  "So 
this  is  your  France !" 

However,  the  excitement  of  escorting  the  youngest 
English  peeress  to  Paris  sufficed  for  Audrey,  even  if 
it  did  not  suffice  for  Miss  Ingate  with  her  middle-aged 
apprehensions.  They  knew  that  Lady  Southminster 
was  the  youngest  English  peeress  because  she  had  told 
them  so.  At  the  very  moment  when  they  were  dis- 
patching a  telegram  for  her  to  an  address  in  London, 
she  had  popped  out  the  remark:  "Do  you  know  I'm 
the  youngest  peeress  in  England?"  And  truth  shone 
in  her  candid  and  simple  smile.  They  had  not  found 
the  peer,  neither  on  the  ship,  nor  on  the  quay,  nor  in 
the  station.  And  the  peeress  would  not  wait.  She  was 
indeed  obviously  frightened  at  the  idea  of  remaining 
in  Calais  alone,  even  till  the  next  express.  She  said 
that  her  husband's  "man"  would  meet  the  train  in  Paris. 
She  ate  plenteously  with  Audrey  and  Miss  Ingate  in 


THE  CIGARETTE  GIRL  71 

the  refreshment-room,  and  she  would  not  leave  them 
nor  allow  them  to  leave  her.  The  easiest  course  was 
to  let  her  have  her  way,  and  she  had  it. 

By  dint  of  Miss  Ingate's  unscrupulous  tricks  with 
small  baggage  they  contrived  to  keep  a  whole  com- 
partment to  themselves.  As  soon  as  the  train  started 
the  peeress  began  to  cry.  Then,  wiping  her  heavenly 
silly  eyes,  and  upbraiding  herself,  she  related  to  her 
protectresses  the  glory  of  a  new  manicure  set.  Un- 
fortunately she  could  not  show  them  the  set,  as  it 
had  been  left  in  the  cabin.  She  was  actually  in  posses- 
sion of  nothing  portable  except  her  clothes,  some 
English  magazines  bought  at  Calais,  and  a  handbag 
which  contained  much  money  and  many  bonbons. 

"He's  done  it  on  purpose,"  she  said  to  Audrey  as 
soon  as  Miss  Ingate  went  off  to  take  tea  in  the  tea-car. 
"I'm  sure  he's  done  it  on  purpose.  He's  hidden  him- 
self, and  he'll  turn  up  when  he  thinks  he's  beaten  me. 
D'you  know  why  I  wouldn't  bring  that  luggage  away 
out  of  the  cabin.''  Because  we  had  a  quarrel  about  it, 
at  the  station,  and  he  said  things  to  me.  In  fact  we 
weren't  speaking.  And  we  weren't  speaking  last  night 
either.  The  radiator  of  his — our — car  leaked,  and  we 
had  to  come  home  from  the  Coliseum  in  a  motor-bus. 
He  couldn't  get  a  taxi.  It  wasn't  his  fault,  but  a 
friend  of  mine  told  me  the  day  before  I  was  married 
that  a  lady  always  ought  to  be  angry  when  her  husband 
can't  get  a  taxi  after  the  theatre, — she  says  it  does 
'em  good.  So  first  I  told  him  he  mustn't  leave  me  to 
look  for  one.  Then  I  said  I'd  wait  where  I  was,  and 
then  I  said  we'd  walk  on,  and  then  I  said  we  must  take 
a  motor-bus.  It  was  that  that  finished  him.  He  said, 
*Did  I  expect  him  to  invent  a  taxi  when  there  wasn't 
one?'  And  he  swore.  So  of  course  I  sulked.  You 
must,  you  know.     And  ray  shoes  were  too  thin  and  I 


72  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

felt  chilly.  But  only  a  fortnight  before  I  was  making 
cigarettes  in  the  window  of  Constantinopoulos's. 
Funny,  isn't  it?  Otherwise  he's  behaved  splendid. 
Still  what  I  do  say  is  a  man's  no  right  to  be  ill  when 
he's  taking  you  to  Paris  on  your  honeymoon.  I  knew 
he  was  going  to  be  ill  when  I  left  him  in  the  cabin,  but 
he  stuck  me  out  he  wasn't.  A  man  that's  so  bad  he 
can't  come  to  his  wife  when  she's  bad  isn't  a  man, — 
that's  what  I  say.  Don't  you  think  so.^  You  know 
all  about  that  sort  of  thing,  I  lay." 

Audrey  said  briefly  that  she  did  think  so,  glad  that 
the  peeress's  intense  and  excusable  interest  in  herself 
kept  her  from  being  curious  about  others. 

"Marriage  ain't  all  chocolate-creams,"  said  the 
peeress  after  a  pause.  "Have  one.?"  And  she  opened 
her  bag  very  hospitably. 

Then  she  turned  to  her  magazines.  And  no  sooner 
had  she  glanced  at  the  cover  of  the  second  one  than 
she  gave  a  squeal,  and,  fetching  deep  breaths,  passed 
the  periodical  to  Audrey.  At  the  top  of  the  cover  was 
printed  in  large  letters  the  title  of  a  story  by  a  famous 
author  of  short  tales.  It  ran :   "MAN  OVERBOARD." 

Henceforward  a  suspicion  that  had  lain  concealed  in 
the  undergrowth  of  the  hearts  of  the  two  girls  stalked 
boldly  about  in  full  daylight. 

"He's  done  it,  and  he's  done  it  to  spite  me!"  mur- 
mured Lady  Southminstcr  tearfully. 

"Oh  no !"  Audrey  protested.  "Even  if  he  had  fallen 
overboard  he'd  have  been  seen  and  the  captain  would 
have  stopped  the  boat." 

"Where  do  you  come  from.?"  Lady  Southminster 
retorted  with  disdain.  "That's  an  omen,  that  is," — 
pointing  to  the  words  on  the  cover  of  the  magazine. 
"What  else  could  it  be.?     I  ask  you." 

When  Miss  Ingate  returned  the  child  was  fast  asleep. 


THE  CIGARETTE  GIRL  73 

Miss  Ingate  was  paler  than  usual.  Having  convinced 
herself  that  the  sleeper  did  genuinely  sleep,  she  breathed 
to  Audrey: 

"Pie's  in  the  next  compartment !  .  .  .  He  must  have 
hidden  himself  till  nearly  the  last  minute  on  the  boat 
and  then  got  into  the  train  while  we  were  sending  off 
that   telegram." 

Audrey  blenched. 

"Shall  you  wake  her.?" 

"Wake  her,  and  have  a  scene — with  us  here.''  No,  I 
shan't.     He's  a  fool." 

"How  d'you  know.?"  asked  Audrey. 

"Well,  he  must  have  been  a  fool  to  marry  her." 

"Well,"  whispered  Audrey.  "If  I'd  been  a  man  I'd 
have  married  that  face  like  a  shot." 

"It  might  be  all  right  if  he'd  only  married  the  face. 
But  he's  married  what  she  calls  her  mind." 

"Is  he  young?" 

*'Yes.     And  as  good-looking  in  his  own  way  as  she 


is." 


'Well- 


?j 


But  the  Countess  of  Southminster  stirred,  and  the 
slight  movement  stopped  conversation. 

The  journey  was  endless,  but  it  was  no  longer  than 
the  sleep  of  the  Countess.  At  length  dusk  and  mist 
began  to  gather  in  the  hollows  of  the  land ;  stations 
succeeded  one  another  more  frequently.  The  reflec- 
tions of  the  electric  lights  in  the  compartment  could 
be  seen  beyond  the  glass  of  the  windows.  The  train 
still  ruthlessly  clattered  and  shook  and  swayed  and 
thundered;  and  weary  lords,  ladies,  and  financiers  had 
read  all  the  illustrated  magazines  and  sixpenny  novels 
in  existence  and  they  lolled  exhausted  and  bored  amid 
the  debris  of  literature  and  light  refreshments.  Then 
the  speed  of  the  convoy  slackened,  and  Audrey,  looking 


74  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

forth,  saw  a  pale  cathedral  dome  resting  aloft  amid 
dark  clouds.  It  was  a  magical  glimpse,  and  it  was 
the  first  glimpse  of  Paris.  "Oh!"  cried  Audrey,  far 
more  lil<e  a  girl  than  a  widow.  The  train  rattled 
through  defiles  of  high  twinkling  houses,  roared  under 
bridges,  screeched,  threaded  forests  of  cold  blue  lamps, 
and  at  last  came  to  rest  under  a  black  echoing  vault. 

Paris ! 

And,  mysteriously,  all  Audrey's  illusions  concerning 
France  had  been  born  again.  She  was  convinced  that 
Paris  could  not  fail  to  be  paradisaical. 

Lady  Southminster  awoke. 

Almost  simultaneously  a  young  man  very  well  dressed 
passed  along  the  corridor.  Lady  Southminster,  with 
an  awful  start,  seized  her  bag  and  sprang  after  him, 
but  was  impeded  by  other  passengers.  She  caught  him 
only  after  he  had  descended  to  the  platform,  which 
was  at  the  bottom  of  a  precipice  below  the  windows. 
He  had  just  been  saluted  by,  and  given  orders  to,  a 
waiting  valet.  She  caught  him  sharply  by  the  arm. 
He  shook  free  and  walked  quickly  away  up  the  plat- 
form, guided  by  a  wise  instinct  for  avoiding  a  scene  in 
front  of  fellow-travellers.  She  followed  close  after  him, 
talking  with  rapidity.  They  receded.  Audrey  and 
Miss  Ingate  leaned  out  of  the  windows  to  watch,  and 
still  further  and  further  out.  Just  as  the  honeymoon- 
ing pair  disappeared  altogether  their  two  forms  came 
into  contact,  and  Audrey's  eyes  could  see  the  arm  of 
Lord  Southminster  take  the  arm  of  Lady  Southminster. 
They  vanished  from  view  like  one  flesh.  And  Audrey 
and  Miss  Ingate,  deserted,  forgotten  utterl}',  un- 
thankcd,  buffeted  by  passengers  and  by  the  valet  who 
had  climbed  up  into  the  carriage  to  take  away  the 
impedimenta  of  his  master,  gazed  at  each  other  and 
then  burst  out  laughing. 


THE  CIGARETTE  GIRL  75 

"So  that's  marriage!"  said  Audrey. 

"No,''  said  Miss  Ingate.  "That's  love.  I've  seen  a 
deal  of  love  in  my  time,  ever  since  m}^  sister  Arabella's 
first  engagement,  but  I  never  saw  any  that  wasn't 
vehy,  vehy  queer." 

"I  do  hope  they'll  be  happy,"  said  Audrey. 

"Do  you?"  said  Miss  Ingate. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

EXPLOITATION    OF    WIDOWHOOD 

The  carriage  had  emptied,  and  the  two  adventurers 
stood  alone  among  empty  compartments.  The  plat- 
form was  also  empty.  Not  a  porter  in  sight.  One  after 
the  other,  the  young  widow  and  the  elderly  spinster, 
their  purses  bulging  with  money,  got  their  packages 
by  great  efforts  down  on  to  the  platform. 

An  employee  strolled  past. 

"Porteur?"  murmured  Audrey  timidly. 

The  man  sniggered,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
vanished. 

Audrey  felt  that  she  had  gone  back  to  her  school 
days.  She  was  helpless,  and  Miss  Ingate  was  the  same. 
She  wished  ardently  that  she  was  in  Moze  again.  She 
could  not  imagine  how  she  had  been  such  a  fool  as  to 
undertake  this  absurd  expedition  which  could  only  end 
in  ridicule  and  disaster.  She  was  ready  to  cry.  Then 
another  employee  appeared,  hesitated,  and  picked  up 
a  bag,  scowling  and  inimical.  Gradually  the  man,  very 
tousled  and  dirty,  clustered  all  the  bags  and  parcels 
around  his  person,  and  walked  off.  Audrey  and  Miss 
Ingate  meekly  following.  The  great  roof  of  thfe  station 
resounded  to  whistles  and  the  escape  of  steam  and  the 
clashing  of  waggons. 

Beyond  the  platforms  there  were  droves  of  people, 
of  whom  nearly  every  individual  was  preoccupied  and 
hurried.  And  what  people !  Audrey  had  in  her  heart 
expected  a  sort  of  glittering  white  terminus   full   of 

76 


EXPLOITATION  OF  WIDOWHOOD         77 

dandiacal  men  and  elegant  Parisiennes  who  had  stepped 
straight  out  of  fashion-plates,  and  who  had  no  cares, — 
for  was  not  this  Paris  ?  Whereas  in  fact  the  multitude 
was  the  dingiest  she  had  ever  seen.  Not  a  gleam  of 
elegance !  No  hint  of  dazzling  colour !  No  smiling 
and  satiric  beauty!     They  were  just  persons. 

At  last,  after  formalities,  Audrey  and  Miss  Ingate 
reached  the  foul  and  chilly  custom-house  appointed  for 
the  examination  of  luggage.  Unrecognisable  peers  and 
other  highnesses  stood  waiting  at  long  counters,  form- 
ing bays,  on  which  was  nothing  at  all.  Then,  far 
behind,  a  truck  hugely  piled  with  trunks  rolled  in 
through  a  back  door  and  men  pitched  the  trunks  like 
toys  here  and  there  on  the  counters,  and  officials  came 
into  view,  and  knots  of  travellers  gathered  round 
trunks,  and  locks  were  turned  and  lids  were  lifted,  and 
the  flash  of  linen  showed  in  spots  on  the  drabness  of 
the  scene.  Miss  Ingate  observed  with  horror  the  com- 
plete undoing  of  a  lady's  large  trunk,  and  the  exposure 
to  the  world's  harsh  gaze  of  the  most  intimate  posses- 
sions of  that  lady.  Soon  the  counters  were  like  a 
fair.  But  no  trunk  belopging  to  Audrey  or  to  Miss 
Ingate  was  visible.  They  knew  then,  what  they  had 
both  privately  suspected  ever  since  Charing  Cross, 
that  their  trunks  would  be  lost  on  the  journey. 

"Oh!  My  trunk!"  cried  Miss  Ingate. 

Beneath  a  pile  of  other  trunks  on  an  incoming  truck 
she  had  espied  her  property.  Audrey  saw  it,  too.  The 
vision  was  magical.  The  trunk  seemed  like  a  piece  of 
home,  a  bit  of  Moze  and  of  England.  It  drew  affection 
from  them  as  though  it  had  been  an  animal.  They  sped 
towards  it,  forgetting  their  small  baggage.  Their 
porteur  leaped  over  the  counter  from  behind  and  made 
signs  for  a  key.  All  Audrey's  trunks  in  turn  joined 
Miss  Ingate's ;  none  was  missing.  And  finally  an  official, 


78  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

small  and  fierce,  responded  to  the  invocations  of  the 
porteur  and  established  himself  at  the  counter  in  front 
of  them.     He  put  his  hand  on  Miss  Ingate's  trunk. 

"Op-en,"  he  said  in  English. 

Miss  Ingate  opened  her  purse,  and  indicated  to  the 
official  by  signs  that  she  had  no  key  for  the  trunk, 
and  she  also  cried  loudly,  so  that  he  should  compre- 
hend: 

"No  key !  .  .  .  Lost !" 

Then  she  looked  awkwardly  at  Audrey. 

"I've  been  told  they  only  want  to  open  one  trunk 
when  there's  a  lot.  Let  him  choose  another  one,"  she 
murmured  archly  and  sardonically. 

But  the  official  merely  walked  away,  to  deal  with  the 
trunks  of  somebody  else  close  by. 

Audrey  was  cross. 

"Miss  Ingate,"  she  said  formally.  "You  had  the 
key  when  we  started,  because  you  showed  it  to  me.  You 
can't  possibly  have  lost  it." 

"No,"  answered  Winnie  calmly  and  knowingly.  "I 
haven't  lost  it.  But  I'm  not  going  to  have  the  things 
in  my  trunk  thrown  about  for  all  these  foreigners  to 
see.  It's  simply  disgraceful.  They  ought  to  have 
women  officials  and  private  rooms  at  these  places.  And 
they  would  have,  if  women  had  the  vote.  Let  him  open 
one  of  your  trunks.    All  your  things  are  new." 

The  porteur  had  meanwhile  been  discharging  French 
into  Audrey's  other  ear. 

"Of  course  you  must  open  it,  Winnie,"  said  she. 
"Don't  be  so  absurd !"  There  was  a  persuasive  light- 
ness in  her  voice,  but  there  was  also  command.  For 
a  moment  she  was  the  perfect  widow. 

"I'd  rather  not." 

"The  porteur  says  we  shall  be  here  all  night,"  Audrey 
persisted. 


EXPLOITATION  OF  WIDOWHOOD         79 

"Do  you  know  French?" 

"I  learnt  French  at  school,  Winnie,"  said  the  perfect 
widow.  "I  can't  understand  every  word,  but  I  can 
make  out  the  drift."  And  Audrey  went  on  translating 
the  porter  according  to  her  own  wisdom.  "He  says 
there  have  been  dreadful  scenes  here  before,  when  peo- 
ple have  refused  to  open  their  trunks,  and  the  police 
have  had  to  be  called  in.  He  says  the  man  won't  upset 
the  things  in  your  trunk  at  all." 

Miss  Ingate  gazed  into  the  distance,  and  privately 
smiled.  Audrey  had  never  guessed  that  in  Miss  Ingate 
were  such  depths  of  obstinate  stupidity.  She  felt  quite 
distinctly  that  her  undei-standing  of  human  nature  was 
increasing. 

"Oh!  Look!"  said  Miss  Ingate  casually.  "I'm  sure 
those  must  be  real  Parisians !"  Her  ofFhandedness,  her 
inability  to  realise  the  situation,  were  exasperating  to 
the  young  widow.  Audrey  glanced  where  Miss  Ingate 
had  pointed,  and  saw  in  the  doorway  of  the  custom- 
house two  women  and  a  lad,  all  cloaked  but  all 
obviously  in  radiant  fancy-dress,  laughing  together. 

"Don't  they  look  French!"  said  Miss  Ingate. 

Audrey  tapped  her  foot  on  the  asphalt  floor,  while 
people  whose  luggage  had  been  examined  bumped 
strenuously  against  her  in  the  effort  to  depart.  She 
was  extremely  pessimistic ;  she  knew  she  could  do  noth- 
ing with  Miss  Ingate;  and  the  thought  of  the  vast, 
flaring,  rumbling  city  beyond  the  station  intimidated 
her.  The  porteur,  who  had  gone  away  to  collect  their 
neglected  small  baggage,  now  returned,  and  nudged 
her,  pointing  to  the  official  who  had  resumed  his  place 
behind  the  trunks.  He  was  certainly  a  fierce  man,  but 
he  was  a  little  man,  and  there  was  an  agreeable 
peculiarity  in  his  eye. 

Audrey,   suddenly   inspired   and   emboldened,   faced 


80  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

him;  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  Gallically  at  Miss 
Ingate's  trunk,  and  gave  a  sad,  sweet,  wistful  smile, 
and  then  put  her  hand  with  an  exquisite  inviting  gesture 
on  the  smallest  of  her  own  trunks.  The  act  was  a 
deliberate  exploitation  of  widowhood.  The  official 
fiercely  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  threw  up  his  arms, 
and  told  the  porteur  to  open  the  small  trunk. 

"I  told  you  they  would,"  said  Miss  Ingate  negli- 
gently. 

Audrey  would  have  turned  upon  her  and  slain  her, 
had  she  not  been  busy  with  the  tremendous  realisation 
of  the  fact  that  by  a  glance  and  a  gesture  she  had 
conquered  the  customs  official — a  foreigner  and  a 
stranger.     She  wanted  to  be  alone  and  to  think. 

Just  as  the  trunk  was  being  re-locked,  Audrey  heard 
an  American  girlish  voice  behind  her: 

"Now,  you  must  be  Miss  Ingate !" 

"I  am,"  Miss  Ingate  almost  ecstatically  .admitted. 

The  trio  in  cloaked  fancy-dress  were  surrounding 
Miss  Ingate  like  a  bodyguard. 


CHAPTER  IX 


UPE   IN    PAEI3 


Miss  Thompkins  and  Miss  Nickall  were  a  charm  to 
dissipate  all  the  affirighting  menace  of  the  city  beyond 
the  station.  Miss  Thompkins  had  fluffy  red  hair,  with 
the  freckles  which  too  often  accompany  red  hair,  and 
was  addressed  as  Tommy.  Miss  Nickall  had  fluffy 
grey  hair,  with  warm,  loving  eyes,  and  was  addressed 
as  Nick.  The  age  of  either  might  have  been  anything 
from  twenty-four  to  forty.  The  one  came  from  Wyom- 
ing, the  other  from  Arizona;  and  it  was  instantly 
clear  that  they  were  close  friends.  They  had  driven 
up  to  the  terminus  before  going  to  a  fancy-dress  ball 
to  be  given  that  night  in  the  studio  of  Monsieur 
Dauphin,  a  famous  French  painter  and  a  dehghtful 
man.  They  had  met  Monsieur  Dauphin  on  the  previous 
evening  on  the  terrace  of  the  Cafe  de  Versailles,  and 
Monsieur  had  said,  in  response  to  their  suggestion,  that 
he  would  be  enchanted  and  too  much  honoured  if  they 
would  bring  their  English  friends  to  his  little  "leap- 
ing",— that  was,  hop. 

Also  they  had  thought  that  it  would  be  nice  for  the 
travellers  to  be  met  at  the  terminus,  especially  as  Miss 
Ingate  had  been  very  particularly  recommended  to 
Miss  Thompkins  by  a  whole  group  of  people  in  London. 
It  was  Miss  Thompkins  who  had  supplied  the  address 
of  reliable  furnished  rooms,  and  she  and  Nick  would 
personally  introduce  the  ladies  to  their  landlady,  who 
was  a  sweet  creature. 

81 


82  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Tommy  and  Nick  and  Miss  Ingate  were  at  once  on 
terms  of  cordial  informality ;  but  the  Americans  seemed 
to  be  a  little  diffident  before  the  companion.  Their 
voices,  at  the  introduction,  had  reinforced  the  surprise 
of  their  first  glances.  "Oh!  Mrs.  Moncreiff!"  The 
slightest  insistence,  no  more,  on  the  "Mrs." !  Nothing 
said,  but  evidently  they  had  expected  somebody  else! 

Then  there  was  the  boy,  whom  they  called  Musa. 
He  was  dark,  slim,  with  timorous  great  eyes,  and  at- 
tired in  red  as  a  devil  beneath  his  student's  cloak.  He 
apologised  slowly  in  English  for  not  being  able  to  speak 
English.  He  said  he  was  very  French,  and  Tommy 
and  Nick  smiled,  and  he  smiled  back  at  them  rather 
wistfully.  When  Tommy  and  Nick  had  spoken  with 
the  chauffeurs  in  French  he  interpreted  their  remarks. 
There  were  two  motor-taxis,  one  for  the  luggage. 

Miss  Thompkins  accompanied  the  luggage;  she  in- 
sisted on  doing  so.  She  could'  tell  sinister  tales  of 
Paris  cabmen;  and  she  even  delayed  the  departure 
in  order  to  explain  that  once  in  the  suburbs  and  in 
the  pre-taxi  days  a  cabman  had  threatened  to  drive 
her  and  himself  into  the  Seine  unless  she  would  be  his 
bride,  and  she  saved  herself  by  promising  to  be  his 
bride  and  telling  him  that  she  lived  in  the  Avenue  de 
I'Opera;  as  soon  as  the  cab  reached  a  populous  thor- 
oughfare she  opened  the  cab  door  and  squealed  and 
was  rescued;  she  had  let  the  driver  go  free  because 
of  his  good  taste. 

As  the  procession  whizzed  through  nocturnal  streets, 
some  thunderous  with  traffic,  others  very  quiet,  but  all 
lined  with  lofty  regular  buildings,  Audrey  was  pene- 
trated by  the  romance  of  this  city  where  cabmen  pas- 
sionately and  to  the  point  of  suicide  and  murder  adored 
their  fares.  And  she  thought  that  perhaps  after  all 
Madame  Piriac's   impression   of  Paris   might  not   be 


LIFE  IN  PARIS  83 

entirely  misleading.  Miss  Ingate  and  Nick  talked 
easily,  ver}^  charmed  with  one  another,  both  excited. 
Audrey  said  little,  and  the  dark  youth  said  nothing. 
But  once  the  dark  youth  murmured  shyly  to  Audrey 
in  English: 

"Do  you  play  at  ten-nis,  Madame?" 

They  crossed  a  thoroughfare  that  twinkled  and  glit- 
tered from  end  to  end  with  moving  sky-signs.  Serpents 
pursued  burning  serpents  on  the  heights  of  that  thor- 
oughfare, invisible  hands  wrote  mystic  words  of 
warning  and  invitation,  and  blazing  kittens  played  with 
balls  of  incandescent  wool.  Throngs  of  promenaders 
moved  under  theatrical  trees  that  waved  their  pale 
emerald  against  the  velvet  sky,  and  the  ground-floor 
of  every  edifice  was  a  glowing  cafe,  whose  tables,  full 
of  idle  sippers  and  loungers,  bulged  out  on  to  the  broad 
pavements.  .  .  .  The  momentary  vision  was  shut  off 
instantly  as  the  taxis  shot  down  the  mouth  of  a  dark 
narrow  street;  but  it  had  been  long  enough  to  make 
Audrey's  heart  throb, 

"What  is  that.?"  she  asked. 

"That.?"  exclaimed  Nick  kindly.  "Oh!  That's  only 
the  grand  boulevard.^'' 

Then  they  crossed  the  sombre  lamp-reflecting  Seine, 
and  soon  afterwards  the  two  taxis  stopped  at  a  vast 
black  door  in  a  very  wide  street  of  serried  palatial 
fa9ades  that  were  continually  shaken  by  the  rushing 
tumult  of  electric  cars.  Tommy  jumped  out  and  pushed 
a  button,  and  the  door  automatically  split  in  two,  dis- 
closing a  vast  and  dim  tunnel.  Tommy  ran  within,  and 
came  out  again  with  a  coatless  man  in  a  black  and 
yellow  striped  waistcoat  and  a  short  white  apron.  This 
man,  Musa,  and  the  two  chauffeurs  entered  swiftly 
into  a  complex  altercation,  which  endured  until  Audrey 
had  paid  the  chauffeurs  and  all  the  trunks  had  been 


84  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

transported   behind  the   immense  door  and   the  door 
bangingly  shut. 

"Vehy  amusing,  isn't  it?"  whispered  Miss  Ingate 
caustically  to  Audrey.     "Aren't  they  dears?" 

"Madame  Dubois's  establishment  is  on  the  third  and 
fourth  floors,"  said  Nick. 

They  climbed  a  broad,  curving,  carpeted  staircase. 

"We're  here,"  said  Audrey  to  Miss  Ingate  after 
scores  of  stairs. 

Miss  Ingate,  breathless,  could  only  smile. 

And  Audrey  profoundly  felt  that  she  was  in  Paris. 
The  mere  shape  of  the  doorknob  by  the  side  of  a 
brass-plate  lettered  "Madame  Dubois"  told  her  that 
she  was  in  an  exotic  land. 

And  in  the  interior  of  Madame  Dubois'  establish- 
ment, Tommy  and  Nick  together  drew  apart  the  cur- 
tains, opened  the  windows,  and  opened  the  shutters 
of  a  pleasantly  stuffy  sitting-room.  Everybody  leaned 
out  and  they  saw  the  superb  thoroughfare,  straight 
and  interminable,  and  the  moving  roofs  of  the  tram- 
cars,  and  dwarfs  on  the  pavements.  The  night  was 
mild  and  languorous. 

"You  see  that!"  Nick  pointed  to  a  blaze  of  elec- 
tricity to  the  left  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road. 
"That's  where  we  shall  take  you  to  dine,  after  you've 
spruced  yourselves  up.  You  needn't  bother  about 
fancy  dress.  Monsieur  Dauphin  always  has  stacks  of 
kimonos — for  his  models,  you  know." 

While  the  travellers  spruced  themselves  up  in  dif- 
ferent bedrooms.  Tommy  chattered  through  one  pair 
of  double  doors  ajar,  and  Nick  through  the  other,  and 
Musa  strummed  with  many  mistakes  on  an  antique 
Pleyel  piano.  And  as  Audrey  listened  to  the  talk  of 
these  acquaintances,  Tommy  and  Nick,  who  in  half 
an  hour  had  put  on  the  hue  of  her  lifelong  friends, 


LIFE  IN  PARIS  86 

and  as  she  heard  the  piano,  and  felt  the  vibration  of 
cars  far  beneath,  she  decided  that  she  was  still  growing 
happier  and  happier,  and  that  life  and  the  world  were 
marvellous. 

A  little  later  they  passed  into  the  cafe-restaurant 
through  a  throng  of  seated  sippers  who  were  spread 
around  its  portals  like  a  defence.  The  interior,  low, 
and  stretching  backwards,  apparently  endless  into  the 
bowels  of  the  building,  was  swimming  in  the  brightest 
light.  At  a  raised  semi-circular  counter  in  the  centre 
two  women  were  enthroned,  plump,  sedate,  darkly 
dressed,  and  of  middle-age.  To  these  priestesses  came 
a  constant  succession  of  waiters,  in  the  classic  garb  of 
waiters,  bearing  trays  which  they  offered  to  the  gaze 
of  the  women,  and  afterwards  throwing  down  coins 
that  rang  on  the  marble  of  the  counter.  One  of  the 
women  wrote  swiftly  in  a  great  tome.  Both  of  them, 
while  performing  their  duties,  glanced  continually  into 
every  part  of  the  establishment,  watching  especially 
each  departure  and  each  arrival. 

At  scores  of  tables  were  the  most  heterogeneous  col- 
lection of  people  that  Audrey  had  ever  seen ;  men  and 
women,  girls  and  old  men,  even  a  few  children  with 
their  mothers.  Liquids  were  of  every  colour,  ices 
chromatic,  and  the  scarlet  of  lobster  made  a  luscious 
contrast  with  the  shaded  tints  of  salads.  In  the  extreme 
background  men  were  playing  billiards  at  three  tables. 
Though  nearly  everybody  was  talking,  no  one  talked 
loudly,  so  that  the  resulting  monotone  of  conversation 
was  a  gentle  drone,  out  of  which  shot  up  at  intervals 
the  crash  of  crockery  or  a  hoarse  command.  And  this 
drone  combined  itself  with  the  glittering  light,  and  with 
the  mild  warmth  that  floated  in  waves  through  the  open 
windows,  and  with  the  red  plush  of  the  seats  and  with 
the  rosiness  of  painted  nymphs  on  the  blue  walls,  and 


86  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

with  the  complexions  of  women's  faces  and  their  hats 
and  frocks,  and  with  the  hues  of  the  liquids — to  produce 
a  totality  of  impression  that  made  Audrey  dizzy  with 
ecstasy.  This  was  not  the  Paris  set  forth  by  Madame 
Piriac,  but  it  was  a  wondrous  Paris,  and  in  Audrey's 
esteem  not  far  removed  from  heaven. 

Miss  Ingate,  magnificently  pale,  followed  Tommy  and 
Nick  with  sardonic  delight  up  the  long  passage  be- 
tween the  tables.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  be  saying:  "I 
am  overpowered,  and  yet  there  is  something  in  me  that 
is  not  overpowered,  and  by  virtue  of  my  kind-hearted 
derision  I,  from  Essex,  am  superior  to  you  all !" 
Audrey,  with  glance  downcast,  followed  Miss  Ingate, 
and  Musa  came  last,  sinuously.  Nobody  looked  up  at 
them  more  than  casually,  but  at  intervals  during  the 
passage  Tommy  and  Nick  nodded  and  smiled:  "How 
d'ye  do.'^  How  d'ye  do?"  "Bon  soir,"  and  answers 
were  given  in  American  or  French  voices. 

They  came  to  rest  near  the  billiard  tables,  and  near 
an  aperture  with  a  shelf  where  all  the  waiters  congre- 
gated to  shout  their  orders.  A  grey-haired  waiter, 
with  the  rapidity  and  dexterity  of  a  conjuror,  laid  a 
cloth  over  the  marble  round  which  they  sat,  Audrey 
and  Miss  Ingate  on  the  plush  bench,  and  Tommy  and 
Nick,  with  Musa  between  them,  on  chairs  opposite. 
The  waiter  then  discussed  with  them  for  five  minutes 
what  they  should  eat,  and  he  argued  the  problem  seri- 
ously, wisely,  helpfully,  as  befitted.  It  was  Audrey, 
in  full  view  of  a  buflTet  laden  with  shell-fish  and  fruit, 
who  first  suggested  lobster,  and  lobster  was  chosen, 
nothing  but  lobster.  Miss  Ingate  said  that  she  was 
not  a  bit  tired,  and  that  lobster  was  her  dream.  The 
sentiment  was  universal  at  the  table.  When  asked 
what  she  would  drink,  Audrey  was  on  the  point  of 
answering  "lemonade."     But  a  doubt  about  the  pro- 


LIFE  IN  PARIS  87 

priety  of  everlasting  lemonade  for  a  widow  with  much 
knowledge  of  the  world,  stopped  her. 

"I  vote  we  all  have  grenadines,"  said  Nick. 

Grenadine  was  agreeable  to  Audrey's  ear,  and  every 
one  concurred. 

The  ordering  was  always  summarised  and  explained 
by  Musa  in  a  few  phrases,  which  to  Audrey,  sounded 
very  different  from  the  French  of  Tommy  and  Nick. 
And  she  took  oath  that  she  would  instantly  begin  to 
learn  to  speak  French,  not  like  Tommy  and  Nick, 
whose  accent  she  cruelly  despised,  but  like  Musa. 

Then  Tommy  and  Nick  removed  their  cloaks,  and 
sat  displayed  as  a  geisha  and  a  contadina,  respectively. 
Musa  had  already  unmasked  his  devilry.  The  cafe  was 
not  in  the  least  disturbed  by  these  gorgeous  and  strange 
apparitions.  An  orchestra  began  to  play.  Lobster 
arrived,  and  high  glasses  full  of  glinting  green.  Audrey 
ate  and  drank  with  gusto,  with  innocence,  with  the  in- 
tensest  love  of  life.  And  she  was  the  most  beautiful 
and  touching  sight  in  the  cafe-restaurant.  Miss 
Ingate,  grinning,  caught  her  eye  with  joyous  mockery. 
"We  are  going  it,  aren't  we,  Audrey?"  shrieked  Miss 
Ingate. 

Miss  Thompkins  and  Miss  Nickall  began  slowly  to 
differentiate  themselves  in  Audrey's  mind.  At  first  they 
were  merely  two  American  girls — the  first  Audrey  had 
met.  They  were  of  about  the  same  age — whatever  that 
age  might  be — and  if  they  were  not  exactly  of  the 
same  age,  then  Tommy  with  red  hair  was  older  than 
Nick  with  grey  hair.  Indeed  Nick  took  the  earliest 
opportunity  to  remark  that  her  hair  had  turned  grey 
at  nineteen.  They  both  had  dreamy  eyes  that  looked 
through  instead  of  looking  at;  they  were  both  hazy 
concerning  matters  of  fact;  they  were  both  attached 
like  a  couple  of  aunts  to  Musa,  who  nestled  between 


88  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

them  like  a  cat  between  two  cushions ;  they  were  both 
extraordinarily  friendly  and  hospitable;  they  both 
painted  and  both  had  studios — in  the  same  house ;  they 
both  showed  quite  a  remarkable  admiration  and  esteem 
for  all  their  acquaintances ;  and  they  both  lacked 
interest  in  their  complexions  and  their  hair. 

The  resemblance  did  not  go  very  much  further. 
Tommy,  for  all  her  praising  of  friends,  was  of  a  critical, 
curious,  and  analytical  disposition,  and  her  greenish 
eyes  were  always  at  work  qualifying  in  a  very  subtle 
manner  what  her  tongue  said,  when  her  tongue  was 
benevolent,  as  it  often  was.  Feminism  and  sufFragism 
being  the  tie  between  the  new  acquaintances,  these  sub- 
jects were  the  first  material  of  conversation,  and  an 
empress  of  militancy  known  to  the  world  as  "Rosa- 
mund"'having  been  mentioned,  Miss  Ingate  said  with 
enthusiasm: 

"She  lives  only  for  one  thing." 

"Yes,"  replied  Tommy.  "And  if  she  got" it  I  guess 
no  one  would  be  more  disgusted  than  she  herself." 

There  was  an  instant's  silence. 

"Oh  !  Tommy  !"  Nick  lovingly  protested. 

Said  Miss  Ingate  with  a  comprehending  satiric  grin: 

"I  see  what  you  mean.  I  quite  see.  I  quite  see. 
You're  right,  Miss  Thompkins.     I'm  sure  you're  right." 

Audrey  decided  she  would  have  to  be  very  clever  in 
order  to  be  equal  to  Tommy's  subtlety.  Nick,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  not  a  bit  subtle,  except  when  she. tried 
to  imitate  Tommy.  Nick  was  kindness,  and  sympathy, 
and  vagueness.  You  could  see  these  admirable  qualities 
in  every  curve  of  her  face  and  gleam  of  her  eyes.  She 
was  very  sympathetic,  but  somewhat  shocked  when 
Audrey  blurted  out  that  she  had  not  come  to  Paris 
in  order  to  paint. 

"There  are  at  least  fifty  painters  in  this  cafe  this 


LIFE  IN  PARIS  89 

very  minute,"  said  Tommy.  And  somehow  it  was  just 
as  if  she  had  said:  "If  you  haven't  come  to  Paris  to 
paint,  what  have  you  come  for?" 

"Does  Mr.  Musa  paint,  too?"  asked  Audrey. 

"Oh  no!"  Both  his  protectresses  answered  together, 
pained.  Tommy  added:  "Musa  plays  the  vioHn — of 
course." 

And  Musa  blushed.  Later,  he  murmured  to  Audrey 
across  the  table,  while  Tommy  was  ordering  a  salad, 
that  there  were  tennis  courts  in  the  Luxembourg 
gardens. 

"I  used  to  paint,"  Miss  Ingate  broke  out.  "And 
I'm  beginning  to  think  I  should  like  to  paint  again." 

Said  Nick,  enraptured: 

"I'll  let  you  use  my  studio,  if  you  will.  I'd  just 
love  you  to,  now!    Where  did  you  study?" 

"Well,  it  was  like  this,"  said  Miss  Ingate  with  satis- 
faction. "It  was  a  long  time  ago.  I  finished  painting 
a  dog-kennel  because  the  house-painter's  wife  died  and 
he  had  to  go  to  her  funeral,  and  the  dog  didn't  like 
being  kept  waiting.  That  gave  me  the  idea.  I  went 
into  watercolours,  but  afterwards  I  went  back  to  oils. 
Oils  seemed  more  real.  Then  I  started  on  portraits, 
and  I  did  a  portrait  of  my  Aunt  Sarah  from  memory. 
After  she  saw  it  she  tore  up  her  will,  and  before  I 
could  get  her  into  a  good  temper  again  she  married 
her  third  husband  and  she  had  to  make  a  new  will  in 
favour  of  him.  So  I  found  painting  very  expensive. 
Not  that  it  would  have  made  any  difference,  I  suppose, 
would  it?  After  that  I  went  into  miniatures.  The 
same  dog  that  I  painted  the  kennel  for  ate  up  the  best 
miniature  I  ever  did.  It  killed  him.  I  put  a  cross  over 
his  grave  in  the  garden.  All  that  made  me  see  what  a 
fool  I'd  been,  and  I  exchanged  my  painting  things  for 
a  lawn-mower,  but  it  never  turned  out  to  be  any  good." 


90  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"You  (dear !  You  precious  !  You  priceless  !"  cooed 
Nick.  "I  shall  fix  up  my  second  best  easel  for  you 
to-morrow." 

"Isn't  she  just  too  lovely !"  Tommy  murmured  aside 
to  Audrey. 

"I  not  much  understand,"  said  Musa. 

Tommy  translated  to  him,  haltingly,  and  Audrey  was 
moved  to  say,  with  energy : 

"What  I  want  most  is  to  learn  French,  and  I'm  going 
to  begin  to-morrow  morning." 

Nick  was  kindly  confusing  and  shaming  Miss  Ingate 
with  a  short  history  and  catechism  of  modern  art,  in- 
cluding such  names  as  Vuillard,  Bonnard,  Picasso, 
Signac,  and  Matisse, — all  very  eagerly  poured  out  and 
all  very  unnerving  for  Miss  Ingate,  whose  directory 
of  painting  was  practically  limited  to  the  names  of 
Raphael,  Sir  Joshua,  Rembrandt,  Rubens,  Gainsbor- 
ough, Turner,  Lord  Leighton,  Mlllais,  Gustave  Dore 
and  Frank  DIcksee.  When,  however,  Nick  referred  to 
Monsieur  Dauphin,  Miss  Ingate  was  as  it  were  washed 
safely  ashore  and  said  with  assurance :  "Oh  yes !  Oh 
yes!  Oh  yes!" 

Tommy  listened  for  a  few  moments,  and  then,  leaning 
across  the  table  and  lighting  a  cigarette,  she  said  in 
an  intimate  undertone  to  Audrey:  "I  hope  you  don't 
rmnd  coming  to  the  ball  to-night.  We  really  didn't 
know  .  .  ."  She  stopped.  Her  eyes,  ferreting  in 
Audrey's  black,  completed  the  communication. 

Unnerved  for  the  tenth  of  a  second,  Audrey  recovered 
and  answered; 

"Oh  no !    I  shall  like  it  very  much." 

"You've  been  up  against  life !"  murmured  Tommy  in 
a  melting  voice,  gazing  at  her.  "But  how  wonderful 
all  experience  is,  isn't  it?     I  once  had  a  husband.     We 


/ 

LIFE  IN  PARIS  91 

■ 

separated — at  least,  he  separated.  But  I  know  the  feel 
of  being  a  wife." 

Audrey  blushed  deeply.  She  wanted  to  push  away 
all  that  sympathy,  and  she  was  exceedingly  alarmed 
by  the  revelation  that  Tommy  was  an  initiate.  The 
widow  was  the  merest  schoolgirl  once  more.  But  her 
blush  had  saved  her  from  a  chat  in  which  she  could 
not  conceivably  have  held  her  own. 

"Excuse  me  being  so  clumsy,"  said  Tommy  con- 
tritely. "Another  time."  And  she  waved  her  cigarette 
to  the  waiter  in  demand  for  the  bill. 

It  was  after  the  orchestra  had  finished  a  Tango,  and 
while  Tommy  was  examining  the  bill,  that  the  first 
violin  and  leader,  in  a  magenta  coat,  approached  the 
table,  and  with  a  bow  offered  his  violin  deferentially 
to  Musa.  Many  heads  turned  to  watch  what  would 
happen.  But  Musa  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
with  an  exquisite  gesture  of  refusal  signified  that  he 
had  to  leave.  Whereupon  the  magenta  coat  gracefully 
retired,  starting  a  Hungarian  dance  as  he  went. 

"Musa  is  supposed  to  be  the  greatest  violinist  in 
Paris,  perhaps  in  the  world,"  Tommy  whispered  casually 
to  Audrey.  "He  used  to  play  here,  till  Dauphin  dis- 
covered him." 

Audrey,  overcome  by  this  prodigious  blow,  trembled 
at  the  contemplation  of  her  blind  stupidity. 

Beyond  question  Musa  now  looked  extremely  impor- 
tant, vivid,  masterful.  She  had  been  mistaking  him 
for  a  nice,  ornamental,  useless  boy. 


CHAPTER  X 


FANCY  DRESS 


Just  as  the  cafe-restaurant  had  been  an  intensifica- 
tion of  ordinary  life,  so  was  the  ball  in  Dauphin's 
studio  an  intensification  of  the  cafe-restaurant.  It  had 
more  colour,  more  noise,  more  music,  more  heat,  more 
varied  kinds  of  people,  and  of  course  far  more  riotous 
movement  than  the  cafe-restaurant.  The  only  quality 
in  which  the  cafe-restaurant  stood  first  was  that  of 
sustenance.  Monsieur  Dauphin  had  not  attempted  to 
rival  the  cafe-restaurant  in  the  matter  of  food  and 
drink.  And  that  there  was  no  general  hope  of  his  doing 
so  could  be  deduced  from  the  fact  that  many  of  the 
more  experienced  guests  arrived  with  bottles,  fruit, 
sausages,  and  sandwiches  of  their  own. 

When  Audrey  and  her  friends  entered  the  precincts 
of  the  vast  new  white  building  in  the  Boulevard  Raspail, 
upon  whose  topmost  floor  Monsieur  Dauphin  painted 
the  portaits  of  the  women  of  the  French,  British,  and 
American  plutocracies  and  aristocracies,  a  lift  full  of 
gay-coloured  figures  was  just  shooting  upwards  past 
the  wrought-iron  balustrades  of  the  gigantic  staircase. 
Tommy  and  Nick  stopped  to  speak  to  a  Columbine  who 
hovered  between  the  pavement  and  the  threshold  of 
the  house. 

"I  don't  know  whether  it's  the  grenadine  or  the 
lobster  or  whether  it's  Paris,"  said  Miss  Ingate  con- 
fidentially in  the  interval.  "But  I  can  scarcely  tell 
whether  Pm  standing  on  my  head  or  my  heels." 

92 


FANCY  DRESS  93 

Before  the  Americans  rejoined  them,  the  lift  had  re- 
turned and  ascended  with  another  covey  of  fancy  cos- 
tumes, including  a  man  with  a  nose  a  foot  long  and  a 
girl  with  bright  green  hair,  dressed  as  an  acrobat.  On 
its  next  journey  the  lift  held  Tommy  and  Nick's  party, 
and  it  held  no  more. 

When  the  party  emerged  from  it,  they  were  greeted 
with  a  cheer,  hoarse  and  half  human,  by  a  band  of 
light  amateur  mountebanks  of  both  sexes  who  were 
huddled  in  a  doorway.  Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
Audrey  and  Miss  Ingate,  after  astounding  struggles 
in  a  dressing-room  in  which  Nick  alone  saved  their  lives 
and  reputations,  appeared  in  Japanese  disguise  accord- 
ing to  promise,  and  nobody  could  tell  whether  Audrey 
was  maid,  wife,  or  widow.  She  might  have  been  a  crea- 
ture created  on  the  spot,  for  the  celestial  purpose  of 
a  fancy-dress  ball  in  Monsieur  Dauphin's  studio. 

The  studio  was  very  large  and  rather  lofty.  Its 
walls  had  been  painted  by  gifted  pupils  of  Monsieur 
Dauphin  and  by  fellow-artists,  with  scenes  of  life  ac- 
cording to  Catullus,  Theocritus,  Propertius,  Martial, 
Petronius,  and  other  classical  writers.  It  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  the  walls  of  the  studio  constituted  a 
complete  novelty  for  Audrey  and  Miss  Ingate.  Miss 
Ingate  opened  her  mouth  to  say  something,  but,  saying 
nothing,  forgot  for  a  long  time  to  shut  it  again. 

Chinese  lanterns,  electrically  illuminated,  were  strung 
across  the  studio,  at  a  convenient  height,  so  that  athletic 
dancers  could  prodigiously  leap  up  and  make  them 
swing.  Beneath  this  incoherent  but  exciting  radiance 
the  guests  swayed  and  glided,  in  a  joyous  din,  under 
the  influence  of  an  orchestra  of  men  snouted  like  pigs 
and  raised  on  a  dais.  In  a  corner  was  a  spiral  stair- 
case leading  to  the  flat  roof  of  the  studio  and  a  view 


94.  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

of  all  Paris.  Up  and  down  this  corkscrew  contending 
parties  fought  amiably  for  the  right  of  way. 

Tommy  and  Nick  began  instantly  to  perform  intro- 
ductions between  Audrey  and  Miss  Ingate  and  the  other 
guests.  In  a  few  moment  Audrey  had  failed  to  catch 
the  names  of  a  score  and  a  half  of  people — many  Amer- 
icans, some  French,  some  Argentine,  one  or  two  English. 
They  were  all  very  talented  people,  and,  according  to 
Miss  Ingate,  the  most  characteristically  French  were 
invariably  either  Americans  or  Argentines. 

A  telephone-bell  rang  in  the  distance,  and  presently 
a  Toreador  stood  on  a  chair  and  pierced  the  music 
with  a  message  of  yells  in  French,  and  the  room  hugely 
guffawed  and  cheered. 

"Where  is  the  host?"  Audrey  asked. 

"That's  what  the  telephoning  was  about,"  said 
Tommy,  speaking  loudly  against  the  hubbub.  "He 
hasn't  come  yet.  He  had  to  rush  off  this  afternoon 
to  do  pastel  portraits  of  two  Russian  princesses  at 
St.  Germain,  and  he  hasn't  got  back  yet.  The  telephone 
was  to  say  that  he's  started." 

Then  one  of  the  introduced- — it  was  a  girl  wearing 
a  mask — took  Audrey  by  the  waist  and  whirled  her 
strongly  away  and  she  was  lost  in  the  maze.  Audrey's 
first  impulse  was  to  protest,  but  she  said  to  herself: 
*'Why  protest?  This  is  what  we're  here  for."  And 
she  gave  herself  up  to  the  dance.  Her  partner  held 
her  very  firmly,  somewhat  bending  over  her.  Neither 
spoke.  Gyrating  in  long  curves,  with  the  other  dancers 
swishing  mysteriously  about  them  like  the  dancers  of  a 
dream,  and  the  music  as  far  off"  as  another  world,  they 
clung  together  in  the  rhythm  and  in  the  enchantment, 
until  the  music  ceased  .  .  .  The  strong  girl  threw 
Audrey  carelessly  off,  and  walked  away,  breathing  hard. 
And  there  was   something  in   the   strong  girl's    non- 


FANCY  DRESS  95 

chalant  and  curt  departure  which  woke  a  chord  in 
Audrey's  soul  that  had  never  been  wakened  before. 
Audrey  could  scarcely  credit  that  she  was  on  the  same 
planet  as  Essex.  She  had  many  dances  with  men  whom 
she  hoped  and  believed  she  had  been  introduced  to  by 
Tommy,  and  no  less  than  seventeen  persons  of  either 
sex  told  her  in  unusual  English  that  they  had  heard 
she  wanted  to  learn  French  and  that  they  would  like 
to  teach  her ;  and  then  she  met  Musa,  the  devil. 

Musa,  with  an  indolent  and  wistful  smile,  suggested 
the  roof.  Audrey  was  now  just  one  of  the  throng, 
and  quite  unconscious  of  herself;  she  fought  archly 
and  gaily  on  the  spiral  staircase  exactly  as  she  had 
seen  others  do,  and  at  last  they  were  on  the  roof,  and 
the  silhouettes  of  other  fantastic  figures  and  of  cowled 
chimney  pots  stood  out  dark  against  the  vague  yellow 
glow  of  the  city  beneath.  While  Musa  was  pointing 
out  the  historic  landmarks  to  her,  she  was  thinking 
how  she  could  never  again  be  the  girl  who  had  left  Moze 
on  the  previous  morning.  And  yet  Musa  was  so  natural 
and  so  direct  that  it  was  impossible  to  take  him  for 
anything  but  a  boy,  and  hence  Audrey  sank  back  into 
early  girlhood,  talking  spasmodically  to  Musa  as  she 
used  in  school  days  to  talk  to  the  brother  of  her  school 
friend. 

"I  will  teach  you  French,"  said  Musa,  unaware  that 
he  had  numerous  predecessors  in  the  offer.  "But  will 
you  play  tennis  with  me  in  the  gardens  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg.'^" 

Audrey  said  she  would,  and  that  she  would  buy  a 
racket. 

"Tell  me  about  all  those  artists  Miss  Nickall  spoke 
of,"  she  said.  "I  must  know  about  all  the  artists,  and 
all  the  musicians,  and  all  the  authors.  I  must  know 
all  about  them  at  once.     I  shan't  sleep  until  I  know  ali 


96  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

their  names  and  I  can  talk  French.     I  shan't  sleep." 

Musa  began  the  catalogue.  When  a  girl  came  and 
chucked  him  under  the  chin,  he  angrily  slapped  her 
face.    Then,  to  avoid  complications,  they  descended. 

In  the  middle  of  the  studio,  wearing  a  silk  hat,  a 
morning  coat,  striped  trousers,  yellow  gloves,  and  boots 
with  spats,  stood  a  smiling  figure. 

"Voila  Dauphin!"  said  Musa. 

"Musa !"  called  Monsieur  Dauphin,  espying  the 
youth  on  the  staircase.  Then  he  made  a  gesture  to  the 
orchestra :  "Give  him  a  violin !" 

Audrey  stood  by  Musa  while  he  played  a  dance  that 
nobody  danced  to,  and  when  he  had  finished  she  was 
rather  ashamed,  under  the  curtain  of  wild  cheering, 
because  with  her  Essex  incredulity  she  had  not  suffi- 
ciently believed  in  Musa's  greatness. 

"Permit  your  host  to  introduce  himself,"  said  a  voice 
behind  her,  not  in  the  correct  Enghsh  of  a  linguistic 
Frenchman,  but  in  utterly  English  English.  She  had 
now  descended  to  the  floor  of  the  studio. 

Emile  Dauphin  raised  his  glossy  hat,  and  then  asked 
to  be  allowed  to  put  it  on  again,  as  the  company  had 
decided  that  it  was  part  of  his  costume.  He  had  a 
delicious  smile,  at  once  respectful  and  intimate.  Audrey 
had  read  somewhere  that  really  great  men  were  always 
simple  and  unaffected, — indeed  that  it  was  often  im- 
possible to  guess  from  their  demeanour  that,  etc.,  etc. — 
and  this  experience  of  the  first  celebrity  with  whom  she 
had  ever  spoken  (except  Musa,  who  was  somehow  only 
Musa)  confirmed  the  statement,  and  confirmed  also  her 
young  instinctive  belief  that  what  is  printed  must  be 
true.  She  was  beginning  to  feel  the  stealthy  oncomings 
of  fatigue,  and  certainly  she  was  very  nervous,  but 
Monsieur    Dauphin's    quite    particularly    sympathetic 


FANCY  DRESS  97 

manner,  and  her  own  sudden  determination  not  to  be 
a  little  blushing  fool  gave  her  new  power. 

"I  can't  express  to  you,"  he  said,  moving  towards 
the  dais  and  mesmerising  her  to  keep  by  his  side.  "I 
can't  express  to  you  how  sorry  I  was  to  be  so  late." 
He  made  the  apology  with  lightness,  but  with  sincerity. 
Audrey  knew  how  polite  the  French  were.  "But  truly 
circumstances  were  too  much  for  me.  Those  two  Rus- 
sian princesses — they  came  to  me  through  a  mutual 
friend,  a  dear  old  friend  of  mine,  very  closely  attached 
also  to  them.  They  leave  to-morrow  morning  by  the 
St.  Petersburg  express,  on  which  they  have  engaged  a 
special  coach.  What  was  I  to  do.''  I  tried  to  tear 
myself  away  earlier,  but  of  course  there  were  the  por- 
trait sketches  to  finish,  and  no  doubt  you  know  the 
usages  of  the  best  society  in  Russia." 

"Yes,"  murmured  Audrey. 

"Come  up  on  the  dais,  will  you?"  he  suggested.  "And 
let  us  survey  the  scene  together." 

They  surveyed  the  scene  together.  The  snouted  band 
was  having  supper  on  the  floor  in  a  corner,  and  many 
of  the  guests  also  were  seated  on  the  floor.  Miss  Ingate, 
intoxicated  by  the  rapture  of  existence,  and  Miss 
Thompkins  were  carefully  examining  the  frescoes  on 
the  walls.  A  young  woman  covered  from  head  to  foot 
with  gold  tinsel  was  throwing  chocolates  into  Musa's 
mouth,  or  as  near  to  it  as  she  could. 

"What  a  splendid  player  Mr.  Musa  is !"  Audrey 
inaugurated  her  career  as  a  woman  of  the  world.  "I 
doubt  if  I  have  ever  heard  such  violin  playing." 

"I'm  so  glad  you  think  so,"  replied  Monsieur 
Dauphin.  "Of  course  you  know  I'm  very  conceited 
about  my  painting.  Anybody  will  tell  you  so.  But 
beneath  all  that  I'm  not  so  sure.  I  often  have  the 
gravest  doubts  about  my  work.    But  I  never  had  any 


98  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

doubt  that  when  I  took  Musa  out  of  the  orchestra  in 
the  Cafe  de  Versailles  I  was  giving  a  genius  to  the 
world.  And  perhaps  that's  how  I  shall  be  remembered 
by  posterity.     And  if  it  is  I  shall  be  content." 

Never  before  had  Audrey  heard  anybody  connect 
himself  with  posterity,  and  she  was  very  much  im- 
pressed. Monsieur  Dauphin  was  resigned  and  yet 
brave.  By  no  means  convinced  that  posterity  would 
do  the  right  thing,  he  nevertheless  had  no  grudge  against 
posterity. 

Just  then  there  was  a  sharp  scream  at  the  top  of 
the  spiral  staircase.  With  a  smile  that  condoned  the 
scream  and  excused  his  flight,  Monsieur  Dauphin  ran 
to  the  staircase,  and  up  it,  and  disappeared  on  to  the 
roof.  Nobody  seemed  to  be  perturbed.  Audrey  was 
left  alone  and  conspicuous  on  the  dais. 

"Charming,  isn't  he.?"  said  Miss  Thompkins,  arriving 
with  Miss  Ingate  in  front  of  the  flower-screened  plat- 
form. 

"Oh !  He  is  !"  answered  Audrey  with  sincerity,  leaning 
downwards. 

"Has  he  told  you  all  about  the  Russian  princesses.'"' 

"Oh  yes !"  said  Audrey,  pleased. 

"I  thought  he  would,"  said  Miss  Thompkins,  with  a 
peculiar  intonation. 

Audrey  knew  then  that  Miss  Thompkins,  having  first 
maliciously  made  sure  that  she  was  a  ninny,  was  now 
telling  her  to  her  face  that  she  was  a  ninny. 

Tommy  continued: 

"Then  I  guess  he  told  you  he'd  given  Musa  to  the 
world." 

Audrey  nodded. 

"Ah !  I  knew  he  would.  Well,  when  he  comes  back 
he'll  tell  you  that  you  must  come  to  one  of  his  real 
entertainments  here,  and  that  this  one  is  nothing.    Then 


FANCY  DRESS  99 

he'll  tell  you  about  all  the  nobs  he  knows  in  London. 
And  at  last  he'll  say  that  you  have  a  strangely  ex- 
pressive face,  and  he'd  like  to  paint  it  and  show  the 
picture  in  the  Salon.  But  he  won't  tell  you  it'll  cost 
you  forty  thousand  francs.  So  I'll  tell  you  that,  be- 
cause perhaps  later  on,  if  you  don't  know,  you  might 
find  yourself  making  a  noise  like  a  tenderfoot.  You 
see  Miss  Ingate  hasn't  concealed  that  you're  a  lady 
millionaire." 

"No,  I  haven't,"  said  Miss  Ingate,  glowing  and  yet 
sardonic.  "I  couldn't  bring  myself  to,  because  I  was 
so  anxious  to  see  if  human  nature  in  Paris  is  anything 
like  what  it  is  in  Essex." 

"And  why  should  you  hide  it,  Winnie.'"'  Audrey 
stoutly  demanded. 

"Well,  au  revoir,"  Tommy  murmured  delicately,  with 
a  very  oi'iginal  gesture.     "He's  coming  back." 

As  Monsieur  Dauphin,  having  apparently  established 
peace  on  the  roof,  approached  again,  Audrey  discreetly 
examined  his  face  and  his  demeanour,  to  see  if  she 
could  perceive  in  him  any  of  the  sinister  things  that 
Tommy  had  implied.  She  was  unable  to  make  up  her 
mind  whether  she  could  or  not.  But  in  the  end  she 
decided  that  she  was  as  shrewd  as  anybody  in  the 
place. 

"Have  you  been  to  my  roof-garden,  Mrs.  Moncreiff  ?" 
he  asked  in  a  persuasive  voice,  raising  his  eyebrows. 

She  said  she  had,  and  that  she  thought  the  roof  was 
heavenly. 

Then  from  the  corner  of  her  eye  she  saw  Miss  Ingate 
and  Tommy  sidling  mischievously  away,  like  conspira- 
tors who  have  lighted  a  time  fuse.  She  considered  that 
Tommy,  with  her  red  hair  and  freckles,  and  strange 
glances  and  strange  tones  full  of  a  naughty  and 
malicious  sweetness,  was  even  more  peculiar  than  Miss 


100  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Ingate.  But  she  was  not  intimidated  by  them  nor  by 
the  illustrious  Monsieur  Dauphin,  so  perfectly  master 
of  his  faculties.  Rather  she  was  exultant  in  the  con- 
tagion of  their  malice.  Once  more  she  felt  as  if  she 
had  ceased  to  be  a  girl  a  very  long  time  ago.  And 
she  was  aware  of  agreeable  and  exciting  temptations. 

"Are  you  taking  a  house  in  Paris .?"  enquired  Mon- 
sieur Dauphin. 

Audrey  answered  primly: 

"I  haven't  decided.     Should  you  advise  me  to  do  so?" 

He  waved  a  hand. 

"Ah !  It  depends  on  the  life  you  wish  to  lead.  Who 
knows — with  a  young  woman  who  has  all  experience 
behind  her  and  all  life  before  her!  But  I  do  hope  I 
may  see  you  again.  And  I  trust  I  may  persuade  you 
to  come  to  my  studio  again."  Audrey  felt  the  thrill  of 
drama  as  he  proceeded.  "This  is  scarcely  a  night  for 
you.  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I  give  three  entertain- 
ments during  the  autumn.  To-night  is  the  first.  It 
is  for  students  and  those  English  and  Americans  who 
think  they  are  seeing  Paris  here.  Then  I  give  another 
for  the  political  and  dramatic  worlds.  Each  is  secretly 
proud  to  meet  the  other.  The  third  I  reserve  to  my 
friends.  Some  of  my  many  friends  in  London  are  good 
enough  to  come  over  specially  for  it.  It  is  on  Christ- 
mas Eve.     I  do  wish  you  would  come  to  that  one." 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  catching  the  diabolic  glances 
of  Miss  Ingate  and  Tommy,  "I  suppose  you  know 
almost  more  people  in  London  than  in  Paris.'"' 

He  answered : 

"Well,  I  count  among  my  friends  more  than  two- 
thirds  of  the  subscribers  to  Covent  Garden  opera  .  .  . 
By  the  way,  do  you  happen  to  be  connected  with  the 
MoncreifFs  of  Suddon  Wester.?    They  have  a  charming 


FANCY  DRESS  101 

house  in  Hjde  Park  Terrace.  But  probably  you  know 
it?" 

Audrey  burst  out  laughing.  She  laughed  loud  and 
violently  till  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"Well,"  he  said,  at  a  loss,  deprecatingly.  "Perhaps 
these  MoncreifFs  are  rather  weird." 

"I  was  only  laughing,"  she  said  in  gasps,  but  with  a 
complete  secret  composure.  "Because  we  had  such  an 
awful  quarrel  with  them  last  year.  I  couldn't  tell  you 
the  details.     They're  too  shocking." 

He  gave  a  dubious  smile. 

"D'you  know,  dear  young  lady,"  he  recommenced 
after  a  brief  pause.  "I  should  adore  to  paint  a  por- 
trait of  you  laughing.  It  would  be  very  well  hung  in 
the  Salon.  Your  face  is  so  strangely  expressive.  It  is 
utterly  different,  in  expression,  from  any  other  face 
I  ever  saw — and  I  have  studied  faces." 

Heedless  of  the  general  interest  which  she  was  arous- 
ing, Audrey  leaned  on  the  rail  of  the  screen  of  flowers, 
and  gave  herself  up  afresh  to  laughter.  Monsieur 
Dauphin  was  decidedly  puzzled.  The  affair  might  have 
ended  in  hysteria  and  confusion,  had  not  Miss  Ingate, 
with  Nick  and  Tommy,  come  hurrying  up  to  the  dais. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  POLITICAI.  REFUGEE 

"Rosamund  has  come  to  my  studio  and  wants  to  see 
me  at  once.  She  has  sent  for  me.  Miss  Ingate  says 
she  shall  go,  too." 

It  was  these  words  in  a  highly  emotionalised  voice 
from  Miss  Nickall  that,  like  a  vague  murmured  message 
of  vast  events,  drew  the  entire  qviartet  away  from  the 
bright  inebriated  scene  created  by  Monsieur  Dauphin. 

The  single  word  "Rosamund"  sufficed  to  break  one 
mood  and  induce  another  in  all  bosoms  save  that  of 
Audrey,  who  was  in  a  state  of  permanent  joyous  exulta- 
tion that  she  scarcely  even  attempted  to  control.  The 
great  militant  had  a  surname,  but  it  was  rarely  used 
save  by  police-magistrates.  Her  Christian  name  alone 
was  more  impressive  than  the  myriad  cognomens  of 
queens  and  princesses.  Miss  Nickall  ran  away  home 
at  once.  Miss  Thompkins  was  left  to  deliver  Miss 
Ingate  and  Audrey  at  Nick's  studio,  which,  being  in 
the  Rue  Delambre,  was  not  far  away.  And  not  the 
shedding  of  the  kimono  and  the  re-assumption  of  Euro- 
pean attire  could  affect  Audrey's  spirits.  Had  she 
been  capable  of  regret  in  that  hour,  she  would  have 
regretted  the  abandonment  of  the  ball,  where  the  refined, 
spiritual,  strange  faces  of  the  men,  and  the  enigmatic 
quality  of  the  women,  and  the  exceeding  novelty  of 
the  social  code  had  begun  to  arouse  in  her  sentiments 
of  approval  and  admiration.  But  she  quitted  the  stag- 
gering frolic  without  a  sigh;  for  she  carried  within 

102 


A  POLITICAL  REFUGEE  103 

her  a  frolic  surpassing  anything  exterior  or  physical. 

The  immense  flickering  boulevard  with  its  double 
roadway  stretched  away  to  the  horizon  on  either  hand, 
empty. 

"What  time  is  it?"  asked  Miss  Ingate. 

Tommy  looked  at  her  wrist-watch. 

"Don't  tell  me !  Don't  tell  me !"  cried  Audrey. 

"We  might  get  a  taxi  in  the  Rue  de  Babylone," 
Tommy  suggested.    "Or  shall  we  walk.?" 

"We  must  walk,"  cried  Audrey. 

She  knew  the  name  of  the  street.  In  the  distance 
she  could  recognise  the  dying  lights  of  the  cafe-restau- 
rant where  they  had  eaten.  She  felt  already  like  an 
inhabitant  of  the  dreamed-of  city.  It  was  almost  in- 
conceivable to  her  that  she  had  been  within  it  for  only 
a  few  hours,  and  that  England  lay  less  than  a  day 
behind  her  in  the  past,  and  Moze  less  than  two  days. 
And  Aguilar  the  morose,  and  the  shuttered  rooms  of 
Flank  Hall  shot  for  an  instant  into  her  mind  and  out 
again. 

The  othej-  two  women  walked  rather  quickly,  mes- 
merised possibly  by  the  magic  of  the  illustrious 
Christian  name,  and  Audrey  gave  occasional  school- 
girlish  leaps  by  their  side.  A  little  policeman  appeared 
inquisitive  from  a  bye-street,  and  Audrey  tossed  her 
head  as  if  saying:  "Pooh!  I  belong  here.  All  the 
mystery  of  this  city  Is  mine,  and  I  am  as  at  home  as  in 
Moze  Street." 

And  as  they  surged  through  the  echoing  solitude  of 
the  boulevard,  and  as  they  crossed  the  equally  tre- 
mendous boulevard  that  cut  through  it  east  and  west. 
Tommy  told  the  story  of  Nick's  previous  relations  with 
Rosamund.  Nick  had  met  Rosamund  once  before 
through  her  English  chum,  Betty  Burke,  an  art-student 
who  had  ultimately  sacrificed  art  to  the  welfare  of  her 


104  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

sex,  but  who  with  Mrs.  Burke  had  shared  rooms  and 
studio  with  Nick  for  many  months.  Tommy's  narrative 
was  spotted  with  hardly  perceptible  sarcasms  concern- 
ing art,  women,  Betty  Burke,  Mrs.  Burke,  and  Nick; 
but  she  put  no  barb  into  Rosamund.  And  when  Miss 
Ingate,  who  had  never  met  Rosamund,  asked  what  Rosa- 
mund amounted  to  in  the  esteem  of  Tommy,  Tommy 
evaded  the  question.  Miss  Ingate  remembered,  how- 
ever, what  she  had  said  in  the  cafe-restaurant. 

Then  they  turned  into  the  Rue  Delambre,  and  Tommy 
halted  them  in  the  deep  obscurity  in  front  of  another 
of  those  huge  black  doors  which  throughout  Paris 
seemed  to  guard  the  secrets  of  individual  life.  An 
automobile  was  waiting  close  by.  A  little  door  in  the 
huge  one  clicked  and  yielded,  and  they  climbed  over  a 
step  into  black  darkness. 

"Thompkins !"  called  Miss  Thompkins  loudly  to  the 
black  darkness,  to  reassure  the  drowsy  concierge  in 
his  hidden  den,  shutting  the  door  with  a  bang  behind 
them;  and,  groping  for  the  hands  of  the  others,  she 
dragged  them  forward  stumbling. 

"I  never  have  a  match,"  she  said. 

They  blundered  up  tenebrous  stairs. 

"We're  just  passing  my  door,"  said  Tommy.  "Nick's 
is  higher  up." 

Then  a  perpendicular  slit  of  light  showed  itself — 
and  a  portal  slightly  open  could  be  distinguished. 

"I  shall  quit  here,"  said  Tommy.    "You  go  right  in." 

"You  aren't  leaving  us?"  exclaimed  Miss  Ingate  in 
alarm. 

"I  won't  go  in,"  Tommy  persisted  in  a  quiet  satiric 
tone.  "I'll  leave  my  door  open  below,  and  see  you 
when  you  come  down," 

She  could  be  heard  descending. 


A  POLITICAL  REFUGEE  105 


il^ 


'Why,  I  guess  they're  here,"  said  a  voice,  Nick's, 
within,  and  the  door  was  pulled  wide  open. 

"My  legs  are  all  of  a  tremble !"  muttered  Miss 
Ingate. 

Nick's  studio  seemed  larger  than  reality  because  of 
its  inadequate  illumination.  On  a  small  paint-stained 
table  in  the  centre  was  an  oil-lamp  beneath  a  round 
shade  that  had  been  decorated  by  some  artist's  hand 
with  a  series  of  reclining  women  in  many  colours. 
This  lamp  made  a  moon  in  the  midnight  of  the  studio, 
but  il  was  a  moon  almost  without  rays ;  the  shade 
seemed  to  imprison  the  light,  save  that  which  escaped 
from  its  superior  orifice.  Against  the  table  stood  a 
tall  thin  woman  in  black.  Her  face  was  lit  by  the  rays 
escaping  upward;  a  pale,  firm,  bland  face,  with  rather 
prominent  cheeks ;  loose  grey  hair  above,  surmounted 
by  a  toque.  The  dress  was  dark,  and  the  only  noticeable 
feature  of  it  was  that  the  sleeves  were  finished  in  white 
linen;  from  these  the  hands  emerged  calm  and  veined 
under  the  lampshade;  in  one  of  them  a  pair  of  gloves 
were  clasped.     On  the  table  lay  a  thin  mantle. 

At  the  back  of  the  studio  there  sat  another  woman, 
so  engloomed  that  no  detail  of  her  could  be  distin- 
guished. 

"As  I  was  saying,"  the  tall  upright  woman  resumed 
as  soon  as  Miss  Ingate  and  Audrey  had  been  intro- 
duced. "Betty  Burke  is  in  prison.  She  got  six  weeks 
this  morning.  She  may  never  come  out  again.  Almost 
her  last  words  from  the  dock  were  that  you,  Miss 
Nickall,  should  be  asked  to  go  to  London  to  look  after 
Mrs.  Burke,  and  perhaps  to  take  Betty's  place  in  other 
ways.  She  said  that  her  mother  preferred  you  to  any- 
body else,  and  that  she  was  sure  you  would  come.  Shall 
you?" 

The  accents  were  very  clear,  the  face  was  delicately 


106  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

smiling,  ^le  little  gestures  had  a  quite  tranquil  quality. 
Rosamund  did  not  seem  to  care  whether  Miss  Nickall 
obeyed  the  summons  or  not.  She  did  not  seem  to  care 
about  anything  whatever  except  her  own  manner  of 
existing.  She  was  the  centre  of  Paris,  and  Paris  was 
naught  but  a  circumference  for  her.  All  phenomena 
beyond  the  individuality  of  the  woman  were  reduced 
to  the  irrelevant  and  the  negligible.  It  would  have  been 
absurd  to  mention  to  her  costume-balls.  The  frost  of 
her  indifference  would  have  wilted  them  into  nothing- 
ness. 

"Yes,  of  course,  I  shall  go,"  Nick  answered. 

^'When.'"'  was  the  implacable  question. 

"Oh!  By  the  first  train,"  said  Nick  eagerly.  As  she 
approached  the  lamp,  the  gleam  of  the  devotee  could 
be  seen  in  her  gaze.  In  one  moment  she  had  sacrificed 
Paris  and  art  and  Tommy  and  herself,  and  had  risen 
to  the  sacred  ardour  of  a  vocation.  Rosamund  was 
well  accustomed  to  watching  the  process,  and  she  gave 
not  the  least  sign  of  satisfaction  or  approval. 

"I  ought  to  tell  you,"  she  went  on,  "that  I  came 
over  from  London  suddenly  by  the  afternoon  service 
in  order  to  escape  arrest.  I  am  now  a  political  refugee. 
Things  have  come  to  this  pass.  You  will  do  well  to 
leave  by  the  first  train.  That  is  why  I  decided  to  call 
here  before  going  to  bed." 

"Where's  Tommy?"  asked  Nick,  appealing  wildly  to 
Miss  Ingate  and  Audrey.  Upon  being  answered  she 
said,  still  more  wildly:  "I  must  see  her.  Can  you — 
No,  I'll  run  down  myself."  In  the  doorway  she  turned 
round:  "Mrs.  Moncreiff,  would  you  and  Miss  Ingate 
like  to  have  my  studio  while  I'm  away.?  I  should  just 
love  you  to.  There's  a  very  nice  bed  over  there  behind 
the  screen,  and  a  fair  sort  of  couch  over  here.  Do 
say  you  will!    DoT' 


A  POLITICAL  REFUGEE  107 

"Oh!  We  will!"  Miss  Ingate  replied  at  once,  reas- 
suringly, as  though  in  haste  to  grant  the  supreme 
request  of  some  condemned  victim.  And  indeed  Miss 
Nickall  appeared  ready  to  burst  into  tears  if  she  should 
be  thwarted. 

As  soon  as  Nick  had  gone,  Miss  Ingate's  smiling 
face,  nervous,  intimidated,  audacious,  sardonic,  and 
good-humoured,  moved  out  of  the  gloom  nearer  to 
Rosamund. 

"You  knew  I  played  the  barrel-organ  all  down 
Regent  Street?"  she  ventured,  blushing. 

"Ah !"  murmured  Rosamund,  unmoved.  "It  was  you 
who  played  the  barrel-organ.''     So  it  was." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Ingate.  "But  I'm  like  you.  I 
don't  care  passionately  for  prison.  Eh!  Eh!  I'm 
not  so  vehy,  vehy  fond  of  it.  I  don't  know  Miss  Burke, 
but  what  a  pity  she  has  got  six  weeks,  isn't  it?  Still, 
I  was  vehy  much  struck  by  what  some  one  said  to  me 
to-day, — that  you'd  be  vehy  sorry  if  women  did  get 
the  vote.  I  think  I  should  be  sorry,  too, — you  know 
what  I  mean." 

"Perfectly,"  ejaculated  Rosamund,  with  a  pleasant 
smile. 

"I  hope  I'm  not  skidding,"  said  Miss  Ingate  still 
more  timidly,  but  also  with  a  sardonic  giggle,  looking 
round  into  the  gloom.  "I  do  skid  sometimes,  you  know, 
and  we've  just  come  away  from  a " 

She  could  not  finish. 

"And  Mrs.  Moncreiff,  if  I've  got  the  name  right,  is 
she  with  us,  too?"  asked  Rosamund,  miraculously 
urbane.  And  added:  "I  hear  she  has  wealth  and  is 
the  mistress  of  it." 

Audrey  jumped  up,  smiling,  and  lifting  her  veil.  She 
could  not  help  smiling.  The  studio,  the  lamp,  Rosa- 
mund with  her  miraculous  self-complacency,  Nick  with 


108  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

her  soft,  mad  eyes  and  wistful  voice,  the  blundering 
ruthless  Miss  Ingate,  all  seemed  intensely  absurd  to 
her.  Everything  seemed  absurd  except  dancing  and 
revelry  and  coloured  lights  and  strange  disguises  and 
sensuous  contacts.  She  had  the  most  careless  con- 
tempt, stiffened  by  a  slight  loathing,  for  political  move- 
ments and  every  melancholy  effort  to  reform  the  world. 
The  world  did  not  need  reforming  and  did  not  want  to 
be  reformed. 

"Perhaps  you  don't  know  my  story,"  Audrey  began, 
not  realising  how  she  would  continue.  "I  am  a  widow. 
I  made  an  unhappy  marriage.  My  husband  on  the  day 
after  our  wedding-day  began  to  eat  peas  with  his 
knife.  In  a  week  I  was  forced  to  leave  him.  And  a 
fortnight  later  I  heard  that  he  was  dead  of  blood- 
poisoning.    He  had  cut  his  mouth." 

And  she  thought: 

"What  is  the  matter  with  me?     I  have  ruined  my- 
self."   All  her  exultation  had  collapsed. 
"  But  Rosamund  remarked  gravely: 

"It  is  a  common  story." 

Suddenly  there  was  a  movement  in  the  obscure  corner 
where  sat  the  unnamed  and  unintroduced  lady.  This 
lady  rose  and  came  towards  the  table.  She  was  very 
elegant  in  dress  and  manner,  and  she  looked  maturely 
young. 

"Madame  Piriac,"  announced  Rosamund. 

Audrey  recoiled  .  .  .  Gazing  hard  at  the  face,  she 
saw  in  it  a  vague  but  undeniable  resemblance  to  certain 
admired  photographs  which  had  arrived  at  Moze  from 
France. 

"Pardon  me!"  said  Madame  Piriac  in  English  with 
a  strong  French  accent.  "I  shall  like  very  much  to 
hear  the  details  of  this  story  of  pet'its  pois."  The  tone 
of  Madame  Piriac's  question  was  unexceptionable ;  it 


A  POLITICAL  REFUGEE  109 

took  account  of  Audrey's  mourning  attire,  and  of  her 
youthfulness ;  but  Audrey  could  formulate  no  answer 
to  it.  Instead  of  speaking  she  gave  a  touch  to  her 
veil,  and  it  dropped  before  her  piquant,  troubled,  in- 
scrutable face  like  a  screen. 

Miss  Ingate  said  with  noticeable  calm,  but  also  with 
the  air  of  a  conspirator  who  sees  danger  to  a  most 
secret  machination : 

"I'm  afraid  Mrs.  MoncreifF  won't  care  to  go  into 
details." 

It  was  neatly  done.  Madame  Piriac  brought  the 
episode  to  a  close  with  a  sympathetic  smile  and  an 
apposite  gesture.  And  Audrey,  safe  behind  her  veil, 
glanced  gratefully  and  admiringly  at  Miss  Ingate,  who, 
taken  quite  unawares,  had  been  so  surprisingly  able 
thus  to  get  her  out  of  a  scrape.  She  felt  very  young 
and  callow  among  these  three  women,  and  the  mere 
presence  of  Madame  Piriac,  of  whom  years  ago  she  had 
created  for  herself  a  wondrous  image,  put  her  into  a 
considerable  flutter.  On  the  whole  she  was  ready  to 
believe  that  the  actual  Madame  Piriac  was  quite  equal 
to  the  image  of  her  founded  on  photographs  and  let- 
ters. She  set  her  teeth,  and  decided  that  Madame 
Piriac  should  not  learn  her  identity — yet!  There  was 
little  risk  of  her  discovering  it  for  herself,  for  no  photo- 
graph of  Audrey  had  gone  to  Paris  for  a  dozen  years, 
and  Miss  Ingate's  loyalty  was  absolute. 

As  Audrey  sat  down  again,  the  illustrious  Rosamund 
took  a  chair  near  her,  and  it  could  not  be  doubted  that 
the  woman  had  the  mien  and  the  carriage  of  a  leader. 

"You  are  very  rich,  are  you  not?"  asked  Rosamund, 
in  a  tone  at  once  deferential  and  intimate,  and  she 
smiled  very  attractively  in  the  gloom.  Impossible  not 
to  reckon  with  that  smile,  as  startling  as  it  was  seduc- 
tive! 


110  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Evidently  Nick  had  been  communicative. 

"I  suppose  I  am,"  murmured  Audrey,  like  a  child, 
and  feeling  like  a  child.  Yet  at  the  same  time  she  was 
asking  herself  with  fierce  curiosity :  "What  has  Madame 
Piriac  got  to  do  with  this  woman?" 

"I  hear  you  have  eight  or  ten  thousand  a  year  and 
can  do  what  you  like  with  it.  And  you  cannot  be  more 
than  twenty  three  .  .  .  What  a  responsibility  it  must 
be  for  you !  You  are  a  friend  of  Miss  Ingate's  and 
therefore  on  our  side.  Indeed  if  a  woman  such  as  you 
were  not  on  our  side,  I  wonder  whom  we  could  count 
on.  Miss  Ingate  is  of  course  a  subscriber  to  the 
Union " 

"Only  a  very  little  one,"  cried  Miss  Ingate. 

Audrey  had  never  felt  so  abashed  since  an  ex-parlour- 
maid at  Flank  Hall,  who  had  left  everything  to  join  the 
Salvation  Army,  had  asked  her  once  in  the  streets  of 
Colchester  whether  she  had  found  salvation.  She  knew 
that  she,  if  any  one,  ought  to  subscribe  to  the 
Suffragette  Union,  and  to  subscribe  largely.  For  she 
was  a  convinced  suffragette  by  faith,  because  Miss 
Ingate  was  a  convinced  suffragette.  If  Miss  Ingate 
had  been  a  Mormon,  Audrey  also  would  have  been  a 
Mormon.  And,  although  she  hated  to  subscribe,  she 
knew  also  that  if  Rosamund  demanded  from  her  any 
subscription,  however  large — even  a  thousand  pounds, 
she  would  not  know  how  to  refuse.  She  felt  before 
Rosamund  as  hundreds  of  women,  and  not  a  few  men, 
had  felt. 

"I  may  be  leaving  for  Germany  to-morrow,"  Rosa- 
mund proceeded.  "I  may  not  see  you  again — at  any 
rate  for  many  weeks.  May  I  write  to  London  that  you 
mean  to  support  us?" 

Audrey  was  giving  herself  up  for  lost,  and  not  with- 
out reason.     She  foreshadowed  a  future  of  steely  self- 


A  POLITICAL  REFUGEE  111 

sacrifice,  propaganda,  hammers,  riots,  and  prison;  with 
no  self-indulgence  in  it,  no  fine  clothes,  no  art,  and  no 
young  men  save  earnest  young  men.  She  saw  herself 
in  the  iron  clutch  of  her  own  conscience  and  sense  of 
duty.  And  she  was  frightened.  But  at  that  moment 
Nick  rushed  into  the  room,  and  the  spell  was  broken. 
Nick  considered  that  she  had  the  right  to  monopolise 
Rosamund,  and  she  monopolised  her. 

Miss  Ingate  prudently  gathered  Audrey  to  her 
side,  and  was  off  with  her.  Nick  ran  to  kiss  them,  and 
told  them  that  Tommy  was  waiting  for  them  in  the 
other  studio.  They  groped  downstairs,  guided  by  a 
wisp  of  light  from  Tommy's  studio. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  up.'"'  asked  Miss  Ingate  of 
Tommy  in  Tommy's  antechamber.  "Have  you  and  she 
quarrelled.'"' 

"Oh  no!"  said  Tommy.  "But  I'm  afraid  of  her. 
She'd  grab  me  if  she  had  the  least  chance,  and  I  don't 
want  to  be  grabbed." 

Tommy  was  arranging  to  escort  them  home,  and  had 
already  got  out  on  the  landing,  when  Rosamund  and 
Madame  Piriac,  followed  by  Nick  holding  a  candle 
aloft,  came  down  the  stairs.  A  few  words  of  explana- 
tion, a  little  innocent  blundering  on  the  part  of  Nick, 
a  polite  suggestion  by  Madame  Piriac,  and  an  im- 
perious affirmative  by  Rosamund, — and  the  two 
strangers  to  Paris  found  themselves  in  Madame  Piriac's 
waiting  automobile  on  the  way  to  their  rooms ! 

In  the  darkness  of  the  car  the  four  women  could  not 
distinguish  each  other's  faces.  But  Rosamund's  voice 
was  audible  in  a  monologue,  and  Miss  Ingate  trembled 
for  Audrey  and  for  the  future. 

"This  is  the  most  important  political  movement  in 
the  history  of  the  world,"  Rosamund  was  saying,  not  at 
all  in  a  speechifying  manner,  but  quite  intimately  and 


112  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

naturally.  "Everybody  admits  that,  and  that's  what 
makes  it  so  extraordinarily  interesting,  and  that  is  why 
we  have  had  such  magnificent  help  from  women  in  the 
very  highest  positions  who  wouldn't  dream  of  touching 
ordinary  politics.  It's  a  marvellous  thing  to  be  in  the 
movement,  if  we  can  only  realise  it.  Don't  you  think 
so,  Mrs.  Moncreiff .?" 

Audrey  made  no  response.  The  other  two  sat  silent. 
Miss  Ingate  thought: 

"What's  the  girl  going  to  do  next.'*  Surely  she  could 
mumble  something." 

The  car  curved  and  stopped. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Miss  Ingate,  delighted.  "And 
thank  you  so  much.  I  suppose  all  we  have  to  do  is  just 
to  push  the  bell  and  the  door  opens.  Now  Audrey, 
dear." 

Audrey  did  not  stir. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  murmured  Madame  Piriac.  "What  has 
she,  the  little  one.'"' 

Rosamund  said  stiffly  and  curtly: 

"She  is  asleep  ...  It  is  very  late.     Four  o'clock." 

Excellent  as  was  Audrey's  excuse  for  her  lapse, 
Rosamund  was  not  at  all  pleased.  That  slumber  was 
one  of  Rosamund's  rare  defeats. 


CHAPTER  XII 


WIDOWHOOD    IN   THE   STUDIO 


Audrey  was  in  a  white  pique  coat  and  short  skirt, 
with  pale  blue  blouse  and  pale  blue  hat, — and  at  the 
extremity  blue  stockings  and  white  tennis  shoes.  She 
picked  up  a  tennis-racket  in  its  press,  and  prepared 
to  leave  the  studio.  She  had  bought  the  coat,  the 
skirt,  the  blouse,  the  hat,  the  tennis  shoes,  the  racket, 
the  press,  and  practically  all  she  wore,  visible  and 
invisible,  at  that  very  convenient  and  immense  shop, 
the  Bon  Marche,  whose  only  drawback  was  that  it  was 
always  full.  Everybody  in  the  Quarter,  except  a  few 
dolls  not  in  earnest,  bought  everything  at  the  Bon 
Marche,  because  the  Bon  Marche  was  so  comprehensive 
and  so  reliable.  If  you  desired  a  toothbrush  the  Bon 
Marche  not  only  supplied  it,  but  delivered  it  in  a  30 
h.  p.  motor-van  manned  by  two  officials  in  uniform. 
And  if  you  desired  a  bedroom  suite,  a  pair  of  corsets, 
a  box  of  pastels,  an  anthracite  stove,  or  a  new  wall- 
paper, the  Bon  Marche  would  never  shake  its  head. 

And  Audrey  was  now  of  the  Quarter.  Many  simple 
sojourners  in  the  Quarter  tried  to  imply  the  Latin 
Quarter  when  they  said  the  Quarter.  But  the  Quarter 
was  only  the  Montparnasse  Quarter.  Nevertheless  it 
sufficed.  It  had  its  own  boulevards,  restaurants, 
cafes,  concerts,  theatres,  palaces,  shops,  gardens, 
museums,  and  churches.  There  was  no  need  to  leave 
it,  and  if  you  were  a  proper  amateur  of  the  Quarter, 
you  never  did  leave  it  save  to  scoff  at  other  Quarters. 

113 


114!  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Sometimes  you  fringed  the  Latin  Quarter  In  the  big 
cafes  of  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel,  and  sometimes  you 
strolled  northwards  as  far  as  the  Seine,  and  occa- 
sionally even  crossed  the  Seine  in  order  to  enter  the 
Louvre,  which  lined  the  other  bank,  but  you  did  not 
go  any  further.     Why  should  you.^* 

Audrey  had  become  so  acclimatised  to  the  Quarter 
that  Miss  Nickall's  studio  seemed  her  natural  home. 
It  was  very  typically  a  woman's  studio  of  the  Quarter. 
About  thirty  feet  each  way  and  fourteen  feet  high,  with 
certain  irregularities  of  shape,  it  was  divided  into  cor- 
ners. There  were  the  two.  bed-corners,  which  were 
lounge-corners  during  the  day,  the  afternoon-tea  cor- 
ner, with  a  piece  or  two  of  antique  furniture  and  some 
old  silk  hangings,  where  on  high  afternoons  tea  was 
given  to  droves  of  visitors,  and  there  was  the  culinary 
corner,  with  spirit-lamps,  gas-rings,  kettles,  and  a 
bowl  or  two  over  which  you  might  spend  a  couple  of 
arduous  hours  in  ineffectually  whipping  up"  a  mayon- 
naise for  an  impromptu  lunch.  Artistic  operations 
were  carried  out  in  the  middle  of  the  studio,  not  too 
far  from  the  stove,  which  never  went  out  from  Novem- 
ber to  May.  A  large  mirror  hung  paramount  on  one 
wall.  The  remaining  spaces  of  the  studio  were  filled 
with  old  easels,  canvases,  old  frames,  old  costumes  and 
multifarious  other  properties  for  pictures,  trunks, 
lamps,  boards,  tables,  and  bric-a-brac  bought  at  the 
Ham-and-Old-Iron  Fair.  There  were  a  million  objects 
in  the  studio,  and  their  situations  had  to  be,  and  were, 
learnt  off  by  heart.  The  scene  of  the  toilette  was  a 
small  attached  chamber. 

The  housekeeping  combined  the  simplicity  of  the 
early  Christians  with  the  efficient  organising  of  the 
twentieth  century.  It  began  at  about  half  past  seven, 
when  unseen  but  heard  beings  left  fresh  rolls  and  The 


WIDOWHOOD  IN  THE  STUDIO         115 

New  York  Herald  or  The  Daily  Mail  at  the  studio 
door.  You  made  your  own  bed,  just  as  you  cleaned 
your  own  boots  or  washed  your  own  face.  The  larder 
consisted  of  tins  of  coffee,  tea,  sugar,  and  cakes,  with 
an  intermittent  supply  of  butter  and  lemons.  The  in- 
fusing of  tea  and  coffee  was  practised  in  perfection. 
It  mattered  not  in  the  least  whether  toilette  or  break- 
fast came  first,  but  it  was  exceedingly  important  that 
the  care  of  the  stove  should  precede  both.  Between 
ten  and  eleven  the  concierge's  wife  arrived  with  tools 
and  utensils ;  she  swept,  and  dusted  under  a  consider- 
able percentage  of  the  million  objects, — and  the 
responsibilities  of  housekeeping  were  finished  until  the 
next  day,  for  afternoon  tea,  if  it  occurred,  was  a 
diversion  and  not  a  toil. 

A  great  expanse  of  twelve  to  fifteen  hours  lay  in 
front  of  you.  It  was  not  uncomfortably  and  unchange- 
ably cut  into  fixed  portions  by  the  incidence  of  lunch 
and  dinner.  You  ate  when  you  felt  inclined  to  eat, 
and  nearly  always  at  restaurants  where  you  met  your 
acquaintances.  Meals  were  the  least  important  hap- 
penings of  the  day.  You  had  no  reliable  watch,  and 
you  needed  none,  for  you  had  no  fixed  programme. 
You  worked  till  you  had  had  enough  of  work.  You 
went  forth  into  the  world  exactly  when  the  idea  took 
you.  If  you  were  bored,  you  found  a  friend  and  went 
to  sit  in  a  cafe.  You  were  ready  for  anything.  The 
word  "rule"  had  been  omitted  from  your  dictionary. 
You  retired  to  bed  when  the  still  small  voice  within 
murmured  that  there  was  naught  else  to  do.  You 
woke  up  in  the  morning  amid  cups  and  saucers,  lingerie, 
masterpieces,  and  boots.  And  the  next  day  was  the 
iSame.  All  the  days  were  the  same.  Weeks  passed 
with  inexpressible  rapidity,  and  all  phenomena  beyond 


116  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

the  Quarter  had  the  quality  of  vague  murmurings  and 
noises  behind  the  scenes. 

May  had  come.  Audrey  and  Miss  Ingate  had  lived 
in  the  studio  for  six  months  before  they  reahsed  that 
they  had  settled  down  there  and  that  habits  had  been 
formed.  Still,  they  had  accomplished  something.  Miss 
Ingate  had  gone  back  into  oils  and  was  attending  life 
classes,  and  Audrey,  by  terrible  application  and  by 
sitting  daily  at  the  feet  of  an  oldish  lady  in  black,  and 
by  refusing  to  speak  English  between  breakfast  and 
dinner,  had  acquired  a  good  accent  and  much  fluency 
in  the  French  tongue.  Now,  when  she  spoke  French, 
she  thought  in  French,  and  she  was  extremely  proud 
of  the  achievement.  Also  she  was  acquainted  with 
the  names  and  styles  of  all  known  modern  painters 
from  pointillistes  to  cubistes,  and,  indeed,  with  the 
latest  eccentricities  in  all  the  arts.  She  could  tell  who 
was  immortal,  and  she  was  fully  aware  that  there  was 
no  real  painting  in  England.  In  brief,  she  was  perhaps 
more  Parisian  even  than  she  had  hoped.  She  had  ab- 
sorbed Paris  into  her  system.  It  was  still  not  the 
Paris  of  her  early  fancy;  in  particular  it  lacked 
elegance;  but  it  richly  satisfied  her. 

She  had  on  this  afternoon  of  young  May  an  appoint- 
ment with  a  young  man.  And  the  appointment  seemed 
quite  natural,  causing  no  inward  disturbance.  Less 
than  ever  could  she  understand  her  father's  ukases 
against  young  men  and  against  every  form  of  self- 
indulgence.  Now,  when  she  had  the  idea  of  doing  a 
thing,  she  merely  did  it.  Her  instincts  were  her  only 
guide,  and,  though  her  instincts  were  often  highly 
complex,  they  seldom  puzzled  her.  The  old  instinct 
that  the  desire  to  do  a  thing  was  a  sufficient  reason 
against  doing  it,  had  expired.  For  many  weeks  she 
had  lived  with  a  secret  fear  that  such  unbridled  con- 


WIDOWHOOD  IN  THE  STUDIO  117 

duct  must  lead  to  terrible  catastrophes,  but  as  nothing 
happened  this  fear  also  expired.  She  was  constantly 
with  young  men,  and  often  with  men  not  young;  she 
liked  it,  but  just  as  much  she  liked  being  with  women. 
She  never  had  any  difficulties  with  men.  Miss  Thomp- 
kins  insinuated  at  intervals  that  she  flirted,  but  she 
had  the  sharpest  contempt  for  flirtation,  and  as  a 
practice  put  it  on  a  level  with  embezzlement  or  arson. 
Miss  Thompkins,  however,  kept  on  insinuating.  Audrey 
regarded  herself  as  decidedly  wiser  than  Miss  Thomp- 
kins. Her  opinions  on  vital  matters  changed  almost 
weekly,  but  she  was  always  absolutely  sure  that  the 
new  opinion  was  final  and  incontrovertible.  Her  scorn 
of  the  old  English  Audrey,  though  concealed,  was 
terrific. 

And  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  she  was  a  widow. 
She  was  never  half  a  second  late,  now,  in  replying  when 
addressed  as  "Mrs.  Moncreiff."  Frequently  she 
thought  that  she  in  fact  was  a  widow.  Widowhood 
was  a  very  advantageous  state.  It  had  a  free  pass 
to  all  affairs  of  interest.  It  opened  wide  the  door  of 
the  world.  It  recked  nothing  of  girlish  codes.  It 
abolished  discussions  concerning  conventional  pro- 
priety. Its  chief  defect,  for  Audrey,  was  that  if  she 
met  another  widow,  or  even  a  married  woman,  she  had 
to  take  heed  lest  she  stumbled.  Fortunately  neither 
widows  nor  wives  were  very  prevalent  in  the  Quarter. 
And  Audrey  had  attained  skill  in  the  use  of  the  state 
of  widowhood.  She  told  no  more  infantile  perilous 
tales  about  husbands  who  ate  peas  with  a  knife.  In 
her  thankfulness  that  the  tyrannic  Rosamund  had  gone 
to  Germany  and  that  Madame  Piriac  had  vanished 
back  into  unknown  Paris,  Audrey  was  at  pains  to  take 
to  heart  the  lesson  of  a  semi-hysterical  blunder. 

She   descended   the  dark   dusty   oak   stairs   utterly 


118  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

content.  And  at  the  door  of  the  gloomy  den  of  the 
concierge  the  concierge's  wife  was  standing.  She  was 
a  new  wife,  the  young  mate  of  a  middle-aged  husband, 
and  she  had  only  been  illuminating  the  den  (which  was 
kitchen,  parlour,  and  bedroom  in  a  space  of  ten  feet 
by  eight)  for  about  a  month.  She  was  plump  and 
pretty,  and  also  she  was  fair,  which  was  unusual  for 
a  Frenchwoman.  She  wore  a  striped  frock  and  a  little 
black  apron,  and  her  yellow  hair  was  waved  with  art. 
Audrey  offered  her  the  key  of  the  studio  with  a  smile, 
and,  as  Audrey  expected,  the  concierge's  wife  began  to 
chatter.  The  concierge's  wife  loved  to  chatter  with 
Anglo-Saxon  tenants,  and  she  specially  enjoyed  chat- 
tering with  Audrey  because  of  the  superior  quality  of 
Audrey's  French  and  of  her  tips.  Audrey  listened, 
proud  because  she  could  understand  so  well  and  answer 
so  fluently. 

The  sun,  which  in  May  shone  on  the  courtyard  for 
about  forty  minutes  in  the  afternoon  on  clear  days, 
caught  these  two  creatures  in  the  same  beam.  They 
made  a  delicious  sight, — ^Audrey  dark  with  her  large 
forehead  and  negligible  nose,  and  the  concierge's  wife 
rather  doll-like  in  the  regularity  of  her  features.  They 
were  delicious  not  only  because  of  their  varied  charm, 
but  because  they  were  so  absurdly  wise  and  omniscient 
and  because  they  had  come  to  settled  conclusions  about 
every  kind  of  worldly  problem.  Youth  and  vitality 
equalised  their  ranks,  and  the  fact  that  Audrey 
possessed  many  ascertained  ancestors,  and  a  part  of 
the  earth's  surface,  and  much  money,  and  that  the 
concierge's  wife  possessed  nothing  but  herelf  and  a 
few  bits  of  furniture,  was  not  of  the  slightest  im- 
portance. 

The  concierge's  wife,  after  curiosity  concerning 
tennis,  grew  confidential  about  herself,  and  more  con- 


WIDOWHOOD  IN  THE  STUDIO         119 

fidential.  And  at  last  she  lowered  her  tones,  and  with 
sparkling  eyes  communicated  information  to  Audrey 
in  a  voice  that  was  little  more  than  a  whisper. 

"Oh!  Truly?  I  must  go,"  hastily  said  Audrey,  blush- 
ing, and  off  she  ran,  reduced  in  an  instant  to  the 
schoolgirl.  Her  departure  was  a  retreat.  These 
occasional  discomfitures  made  a  faint  blot  on  the  ex- 
cellence of  being  a  widow. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


THE    SWOON 


In  the  north-east  corner  of  the  Luxembourg  Gar- 
dens, where  the  lawn-tennis  courts  were  permitted  by 
a  pubHc  authority  which  was  strangely  impartial  and 
cosmopolitan  in  the  matter  of  games,  Miss  Ingate  sat 
sketching  a  group  of  statuary  with  the  Rue  de  Vaugi- 
rard  behind  it.  She  was  sketching  in  the  orthodox 
way,  on  the  orthodox  stool,  with  the  orthodox  combined 
paint-box  and  easel,  and  the  orthodox  police-permit  in 
the  cover  of  the  box. 

The  bright  and  warm  weather  was  tonic;  it  ac- 
counted for  the  whole  temperament  of  -  Parisians. 
Under  such  a  sky,  with  such  a  delicate  pricking  vitali- 
sation  in  the  air,  it  was  impossible  not  to  be  Parisian. 
The  trees,  all  arranged  in  beautiful  perspectives,  were 
coming  into  leaf,  and  through  their  screens  could  be 
seen  everywhere  children  shouting  as  they  played  at 
ball  and  top,  and  both  kinds  of  nurses,  and  scores  of 
perambulators  and  mothers,  and  a  few  couples  dallying 
with  their  sensations,  and  old  men  reading  papers,  and 
old  women  knitting  and  relating  anecdotes  or  entire 
histories.  And  nobody  was  curious  beyond  his  own 
group.  The  people  were  perfectly  at  home  in  this 
grandiose  setting  of  gardens  and  fountains  and  grey 
palaces,  with  theatres,  boulevards  and  the  odour  and 
roar  of  motor-buses  just  beyond  the  palisades.  And 
Miss  Ingate  in  the  exciting  sunshine  gazed  around  with 
her  subdued  Essex  grin,  as  if  saying:  "It's  the  most 

120 


THE  SWOON  121 

topsyturvy  planet  that  I  was  ever  on,  and  why  am  I, 
of  all  people,  trying  to  make  tliis  canvas  look  like  a 
piece  of  sculpture  and  a  sti'eet?" 

"Now  Miss  Ingate,"  said  tall  red-haired  Tommy, 
who  was  standing  over  her.  "Before  you  go  any 
further,  do  look  at  the  line  of  roofs  and  see  how  inter- 
esting it  is ;  it's  really  full  of  interest.  And  you've 
simply  not  got  on  speaking  terms  with  it  yet." 

"No  more  I  have !  No  more  I  have !"  cried  Miss 
Ingate,  glancing  round  at  Audrey,  who  was  swinging 
her  racket.  "Thank  you,  Tommy.  I  ought  to  have 
thought  of  it  for  my  own  sake,  because  roofs  are  so 
much  easier  than  statues,  and  I  must  get  an  effect 
somewhere,   mustn't   I?" 

Tommy  winked  at  Audrey,  But  Tommy's  wink  was 
as  naught  to  the  great  invisible  wink  of  Miss  Ingate, 
the  everlasting  wink  that  derided  the  universe  and  the 
sun  himself.  ♦ 

Then  Musa  appeared,  with  paraphernalia,  at  the 
end  of  a  path.  Accompanying  him  was  a  specimen 
of  the  creature  known  on  tennis-lawns  as  "a  fourth." 
He  was  almost  nameless,  tall,  very  young,  with  the 
seedlings  of  a  moustache  and  a  space  of  nude  calf 
between  his  knickerbockers  and  his  socks.  He  was  very 
ceremonious,  shy,  ungainly,  and  blushful.  He  played 
a  fair-to-middling  game;  and  nothing  more  need  be 
said  of  him. 

Musa  by  contrast  was  an  accomplished  man  of  the 
world,  and  the  fact  that  the  fourth  obviously  regarded 
him  as  a  hero  helped  Musa  to  behave  in  a  manner 
satisfactory  to  himself  in  front  of  these  English  and 
American  women,  so  strange,  so  exotic,  so  kind,  and 
so  disconcerting.  Musa  looking  upon  Britain  as  a 
romantic  isle  where  people  died  for  love.  And  as  for 
America,  in  his  mind,  it  was  as  sinister,  as  wondrous. 


122  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

and  as  fatal  as  the  Indies  might  seem  to  a  bank-clerk 
in  Bradford.  He  had  need  of  every  moral  assistance 
in  this  or  any  other  social  ordeal.  For,  though  he 
was  still  the  greatest  violinist  in  Paris,  and  perhaps  in 
the  world,  he  could  not  yet  prove  this  profound  truth  by 
the  only  demonstration  which  the  world  accepts. 

If  he  played  in  studios  he  was  idolised.  If  he  played 
at  small  concerts  in  unknown  halls,  he  was  received 
with  rapture.  But  he  was  never  lionised.  The  great 
concert  halls  never  saw  him  on  their  platforms ;  his 
name  was  never  in  the  newspapers ;  and  hospitable 
personages  never  fought  together  for  his  presence  at 
their  tables,  even  if  occasionally  they  invited  him  to 
perform  for  charity  in  return  for  a  glass  of  claret 
and  a  sandwich.  Monsieur  Dauphin  had  attempted 
to  force  the  invisible  barriers  for  him,  but  without  suc- 
cess. All  his  admirers  in  the  Quarter  stuck  to  it  that 
he  was  in  the  rank  of  Kreisler  and  Isaye;  at  the  same 
time  they  were  annoyed  with  him  inasmuch  as  he  did 
not  force  the  world  to  acknowledge  the  prophetic  good 
taste  of  the  Quarter.  And  Musa  made  mistakes.  He 
ought  to  have  arrived  at  studios  in  a  magnificent  auto- 
mobile, and  to  have  given  superb  and  uproarious 
repasts,  and  to  have  rendered  innumerable  women  ex- 
quisitely unhappy.  Whereas  he  arrived  by  tube  or 
bus,  never  offered  hospitality  of  any  sort,  and  was  like 
a  cat  with  women.  Hence  the  attitude  of  the  Quarter 
was  patronising,  as  if  the  Quarter  had  said :  "Yes,  he 
is  the  greatest  violinist  in  Paris  and  perhaps  in  the 
world;  but  that's  all,  and  it  isn't  enough.." 

The  young  man  and  the  boy  made  ready  for  the 
game  as  for  a  gladiatorial  display.  Their  frowning 
seriousness  proved  that  they  had  comprehended  the 
true   British   idea  of   sport.      Musa   came   round   the 


THE  SWOON  123 

net   to   Audrey's   side,   but   Audrey   said   in   French: 

"Miss  Thompkins  and  I  will  play  together.  See, 
we  are  going  to  beat  you  and  Gustave." 

Musa  retired.  A  few  indifferent  spectators  had  col- 
lected.    Gustave,  the  fourth,  had  to  serve. 

"Play !"  he  muttered,  in  a  thick  and  threatening 
voice,  whose  depth  was  the  measure  of  his  nervousness. 

He  served  a  double  fault  to  Tommy,  and  then  a 
fault  to  Audrey.  The  fourth  ball  he  got  over.  Audrey 
played  it.  The  two  males  rushed  with  appalling  force 
together  on  the  centre  line  in  pursuit,  and  a  terrible 
collision  occurred.  Musa  fell  away  from  Gustave  as 
from  a  wall.  When  he  arose  out  of  the  pebbly  dust 
his  right  arm  hung  very  limp  from  the  shoulder.  No 
sooner  had  he  risen  than  he  sank  again;  and  the  blood 
began  to  leave  his  face;  and  his  eyes  closed.  The 
fourth,  having  recovered  from  the  collision,  knelt  down 
by  his  side,  and  gazed  earnestly  at  him.  Tommy  and 
Audrey  hurried  towards  the  statesque  group,  and 
Audrey  was  thinking:  "Why  did  I  refuse  to  let  him 
play  with  me?  If  he  had  played  with  me  there  would 
have  been  no  accident."  She  reproached  herself  be- 
cause she  well  knew  that  only  out  of  the  most  absurd 
contrariness  had  she  repulsed  Musa.  Or  was  it  that 
she  had  repulsed  him  from  fear  of  something  that 
Tommy  might  say  or  look.'' 

In  a  few  seconds,  strongly  drawn  by  this  marvellous 
piece  of  luck,  promenaders  were  darting  with  joyous 
rapidity  from  north,  south,  east,  and  west  to  witness 
the  tragedy.  There  were  nurses  with  coloured  stream- 
ers six  feet  long,  lusty  children,  errand-boys,  lads, 
and  sundry  nondescript  men,  some  of  whom  care- 
fully folded  up  their  newspapers  as  they  hurried  to 
the  cynosure.  They  beheld  the  body  as  though  it  were 
a  corpse  and  the  corpse  of  an  enemy ;  they  formulated 


IM  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

and  discussed  theories  of  the  event;  they  examined 
minutely  the  rackets  which  had  been  thrown  on  the 
ground.  They  were  exercising  the  immemorial  rights 
of  unmoved  curiosity;  they  held  themselves  as  indif- 
ferent as  gods ;  and  the  murmur  of  their  impartial 
voices  floated  soothingly  over  Musa,  and  the  shadow 
of  their  active  profiles  covered  him  from  the  sparkling 
sunshine.  Somebody  mentioned  policemen,  in  the 
plural,  but  none  came.  All  remarked  in  turn  that  the 
ladies  were  English,  as  though  that  were  a  sufficient 
explanation  of  the  whole  affair. 

No  one  said: 

"It  is  Musa,  the  greatest  violinist  in  Paris  and  per- 
haps in  Europe." 

Desperately  Audrey  stooped  and  seized  Musa  be- 
neath the  armpits  to  lift  him  to  a  sitting  position. 

"You'd  better  leave  him  alone,"  said  Tommy,  with 
a  kind  of  ironic  warning  and  innuendo. 

But  Audrey  still  struggled  with  the  mass,  convinced 
that  she  was  showing  initiative  and  firmness  of  char- 
acter. The  fourth  with  fierce  vigour  began  to  aid  her, 
and  another  youth  from  the  crowd  was  joining  the 
enterprise  when  Miss  Ingate  arrived  from  her  stool. 

"Drop  him,  you  silly  little  thing!"  adjured  Miss 
Ingate.  "Instead  of  lifting  his  head  you  ought  to  lift 
his  feet." 

Audrey  stared  uncertain  for  a  moment,  and  then 
let  the  mass  subside.  Whereupon  Miss  Ingate  with  all 
her  strength  lifted  both  legs  to  the  height  of  her  waist, 
giving  Musa  the  appearance  of  a  wheelless  barrow. 

"You  want  to  let  the  blood  run  into  his  head,"  said 
Miss  Ingate  with  a  self-conscious  grin  at  the  increasing 
crowd.  "People  only  faint  because  the  blood  leaves 
their  heads — that's  why  they  go  pale." 

Musa's   cheeks   showed  a  tinge   of  red.     You  could 


THE  SWOON  125 

almost  see  the  precious  blood  being  decanted  by  Miss 
Inffate  out  of  the  man's  feet  into  his  head.  In  a  minute 
he  opened  his  eyes.     Miss  Ingate  lowered  the  legs. 

"It  was  only  the  pain  that  made  him  feel  queer," 
she  said. 

The  episode  was  over,  and  the  crowd  very  gradually 
and  reluctantly  scattered,  disappointed  at  the  lack  of 
a  fatal  conclusion.  Musa  stood  up,  smiling  apolo- 
getically, and  Audrey  supported  him  by  the  left  arm, 
for  the  right  could  not  be  touched. 

"Hadn't  you  better  take  him  home,  Mrs.  Mon- 
creifF.P"  Tommy  suggested.  "You  can  get  a  taxi  here 
in  the  Rue  de  Vaugirard."  She  did  not  smile,  but  her 
green  eyes  ghnted. 

"Yes,  I  will,"  said  Audrey  curtly. 

And  Tommy's  eyes  glinted  still  more. 

"And  I  shall  get  a  doctor,"  said  Audrey.  "His  arm 
may  be  broken." 

"I  should,"  Tommy  concurred  with  gravity. 

"Well,  if  it  is,  /  can't  set  it,"  said  Miss  Ingate 
quizzically.  "I  was  getting  on  so  well  with  the  high 
lights  on  that  statue.  I'll  come  along  back  to  the 
studio  in  about  half  an  hour." 

The  fourth,  who  had  been  hovering  near  like  a  crimi- 
nal magnetised  by  his  crime,  bounded  off  furiously  at 
the  suggestion  that  he  should  stop  a  taxi  at  the 
entrance  to  the  gardens. 

"I  hope  he  has  broken  his  arm  and  he  can  never  play 
any  more,"  thought  Audrey,  astoundingly,  as  she  and 
the  fourth  helped  pale  Musa  into  the  open  taxi.  "It 
will  just  serve  those  two  right."  She  meant  Miss 
Ingate   and  Tommy. 

No  sooner  did  the  taxi  start  than  Musa  began  to 
cry.  He  did  not  seem  to  care  that  he  was  in  the  midst 
of  a  busy  street,  with  a  piquant  widow  by  his  side. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MISS  INGATE  POINTS  OUT  THE  DOOR 

"Why  did  you  cry  this  afternoon,  Musa?" 

Musa  made  no  reply. 

Audrey  was  lighting  the  big  lamp  in  the  Moncreiff- 
Ingate  studio.  It  made  exactly  the  same  moon  as  it 
had  made  on  the  night  in  the  previous  autumn  when 
Audrey  had  first  seen  it.  She  had  brought  Musa  to 
the  studio  because  she  did  not  care  to  take  him  to  his 
own  lodgings.  (As  a  fact,  nobody  that  she  knew,  except 
Musa,  had  ever  seen  Musa's  lodgings.)  This  was 
almost  the  first  moment  they  had  had  to  themselves 
since  the  visit  of  the  little  American  doctor  from  the 
Rue  Servandoni.  The  rumour  of  Musa's  misfortune 
had  spread  through  the  Quarter  like  the  smell  of  a 
fire,  and  various  persons  of  both  sexes  had  called  to 
inspect,  to  sympathise,  and  to  take  tea,  which  Audrey 
was  continually  making  throughout  the  late  afternoon. 
Musa  had  had  an  egg  for  his  tea,  and  more  than  one 
girl  had  helped  to  spread  the  yoke  and  the  whites  on 
pieces  of  bread-and-butter,  for  the  victim  of  destiny 
had  his  right  arm  in  a  sling.  Audrey  had  let  them 
do  it,  as  a  mother  patronisingly  lets  her  friends  amuse 
her  baby. 

In  the  end  they  had  all  gone ;  Tommy  had  enigmat- 
ically looked  in  and  gone ;  and  Miss  Ingate  had  gone, 
to  dine  at  the  favourite  restaurant  of  the  hour  in  the 
Rue  Leopold  Robert.  Audrey  had  refused  to  go,  as- 
serting that  which  was  not  true ;  namely,  that  she  had 

126 


MISS  INGATE  POINTS  OUT  THE  DOOR     127 

had  an  enormous  tea,  including  far  too  many  pefits 
fours.  Miss  Ingate  in  departing  had  given  a  glance  at 
her  sketch  (fixed  on  the  easel),  and  another  at  Audrey, 
and  another  at  Musa,  all  equally  sardonic  and  kindly. 

Musa  also  had  declined  dinner,  but  he  had  done 
nothing  to  indicate  that  he  meant  to  leave.  He  sat 
mournful  and  passive  in  a  basket-chair,  his  sling 
making  a  patch  of  white  in  the  gloom.  The  truth  was 
that  he  suffered  from  a  disability  not  uncommon  among 
certain  natures, — he  did  not  know  how  to  go.  He 
could  arrive  with  ease,  but  he  was  no  expert  at  vanish- 
ing. Audrey  was  troubled.  As  suited  her  age  and 
condition,  she  was  apt  to  feel  the  responsibility  of  the 
whole  universe.  She  knew  that  she  was  responsible  for 
Musa's  accident,  and  now  she  was  beginning  to  be 
aware  that  she  was  responsible  for  his  future  as  well. 
She  was  sure  that  he  needed  encouragement  and  guid- 
ance. She  pictured  him  with  his  fiddle  under  his  cliin, 
masterful,  confident,  miraculous,  throwing  a  spell  over 
every  one  within  earshot.  But  actually  she  saw  him 
listless  and  vanquished  in  the  basket-chair;  and  she 
perceived  that  only  a  strongly  influential  and  deter- 
mined woman,  such  as  herself,  could  save  him  from 
disaster.  No  man  could  do  it.  His  tears  had  shaken 
her.  She  was  willing  to  make  allowances  for  a  for- 
eigner, but  she  had  never  seen  a  man  cry  before,  and 
the  spectacle  was  very  disturbing.  It  inspired  her 
with  a  fear  that  even  she  could  not  be  the  salvation  of 
Musa. 

"I  demanded  something  of  you,"  she  said,  after 
lowering  the  wick  of  the  lamp  to  exactly  the  right 
point,  and  staring  at  it  for  a  greater  length  of  time 
than  was  necessary  or  even  seemly.  She  spoke  French 
and  as  she  listened  to  her  French  accent  she  heard  that 
it  was  good. 


128  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"I  am  done  for!"  came  the  mournful  voice  of  Musa 
out  of  the  obscurity  behind  the  lamp. 

"What!  You  are  done  for?  But  you  know  what 
the  doctor  said.  He  said  no  bone  was  broken.  Only 
a  little  strain,  and  the  pain  from  your "  Admir- 
able though  her  French  accent  was,  she  could  not  think 
of  the  French  word  for  "funny-bone."  Indeed  she  had 
never  learnt  it.  So  she  said  it  in  English.  Musa  knew 
not  what  she  meant,  and  thus  a  slight  chasm  was  opened 
between  them  which  neither  could  bridge.  She  finished : 
"In  one  week,  you  are  going  to  be  able  to  play  again." 

Musa  shook  his  head. 

Relieved  as  she  was  to  discover  that  Musa  had  cried 
because  he  was  done  for,  and  not  because  he  was  hurt, 
she  was  still  worried  by  his  want  of  elasticity,  of 
resiliency.  Nevertheless  she  was  agreeably  worried. 
The  doctor  had  disappointed  her  by  his  light  optimism, 
but  he  could  not  smile  away  Musa's  moral  indisposi- 
tion. The  large  vagueness  of  the  studio,  the  very  faint 
twilight  still  showing  through  the  great  window,  the 
silence  and  intimacy,  the  sounds  of  the  French  lan- 
guage, the  gleam  of  the  white  sling,  all  combined  to 
permeate  her  with  dehcious  melancholy.  And  not  for 
everlasting  bliss  would  she  have  had  Musa  strong, 
obstinate,  and  certain  of  success. 

"A  week !"  he  murmured.  "It  is  forever.  A  week  of 
practice  lost  is  eternally  lost.  And  on  Wednesday  one 
had  invited  me  to  play  at  Foa's.    And  I  cannot." 

"Foa?    Who  is  Foa?" 

"What!  You  do  not  know  Foa.?  In  order  to  suc- 
ceed it  is  necessary,  it  is  essential,  to  play  at  Foa's. 
That  alone  gives  the  cachet.  Dauphin  told  me  last 
week.  He  arranged  it.  After  having  played  at  Foa's 
all  is  possible.  Dauphin  was  about  to  abandon  me 
when  he  met  Foa.    Now  I  am  ruined.     This  afternoon 


MISS  INGATE  POINTS  OUT  THE  DOOR     129 

after  the  tennis  I  was  going  to  Durand's  to  get  the  new 
Caprice  of  Roussel — he  is  an  intimate  friend  of  Foa. 
I  should  have  studied  it  in  five  days.  They  would  have 
been  ravished  by  the  attention  .  .  .  But  why  talk  I 
thus?  No,  I  could  not  have  played  Caprice  to  please 
them.  I  am  cursed.  I  will  never  again  touch  the  violin, 
I  swear  it.  What  am  I?  Do  I  not  live  on  the  money 
lent  to  me  regularly  by  Mademoiselle  Thompkins  and 
Mademoiselle  Nickall?" 

"You  don't,  Musa?"  Audrey  burst  out  in  English. 

"Yes,  yes !"  said  Musa  violently.  "But  last  month, 
from  Mademoiselle  Nickall, — nothing!  She  is  in  Lon- 
don; she  forgets.  It  is  better  like  that.  Soon  I  shall 
be  playing  in  the  Opera  orchestra,  fourth  desk,  one 
hundred  francs  a  month.  That  will  be  the  end.  There 
can  be  no  other." 

Instead  of  admiring  the  secret  charity  of  Tommy 
and  Nick,  which  she  had  never  suspected,  Audrey  was 
very  annoyed  by  it.  She  detested  it  and  resented  it. 
And  especially  the  charity  of  Miss  Thompkins.  She 
considered  that  from  a  woman  with  eyes  and  innuendoes 
like  Tommy's  charity  amounted  to  a  sneer. 

"It  is  extremely  unsatisfactory,"  she  said,  dropping 
on  to  Miss  Ingate's  sofa. 

Not  another  word  was  spoken.  Audrey  tapped  her 
foot.  Musa  creaked  in  the  basket-chair.  He  avoided 
her  eyes,  but  occasionally  she  glared  at  him  like  a 
schoolmistress.  Then  her  gaze  softened, — he  looked  so 
ill,  so  helpless,  so  hopeless.  She  wanted  to  light  a 
cigarette  for  him,  but  she  was  somehow  bound  to  the 
sofa.  She  wanted  him  to  go — she  hated  the  prospect 
of  his  going.  He  could  not  possibly  go,  alone,  to  his 
solitary  room.  Who  would  tend  him,  soothe  him,  put 
him  to  bed.'^     He  was  an  infant.  .  .  . 


130  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Then,  after  a  long  while,  Miss  Ingate  entered 
sharply.     Audrey  coughed  and  sprang  up. 

"Oh!"  ejaculated  Miss  Ingate. 

"I — I  think  I  shall  just  change  my  boots,"  said 
Audrey,  smoothing  out  the  short  white  skirt.  And  she 
disappeared  into  the  dressing-room  that  gave  on  to  the 
studio. 

As  soon  as  she  was  gone.  Miss  Ingate  went  close  up 
to  Musa's  chair.     He  had  not  moved. 

She  said,  smiling,  with  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
well  down: 

"Do  you  see  that  door,  young  man?" 

And  she  indicated  the  door. 

When  Audrey  came  back  into  the  studio, 

"Audrey,"  cried  Miss  Ingate  shrilly.  "What  you 
been  doing  to  Musa.'*  As  soon  as  you  went  out  he  up 
vehy  quickly  and  ran  away." 

At  this  information  Audrey  was  more  obviously 
troubled  and  dashed  than  Miss  Ingate  had  ever  seen 
her,  in  Paris.  She  made  no  answer  at  all.  Fortu- 
nately, lying  on  the  table  in  front  of  the  mirror  was  a 
letter  for  Miss  Ingate  which  had  arrived  by  the  evening 
post.  Audrey  went  for  it,  pretending  to  search,  and 
then  handed  it  over  with  a  casual  gesture. 

"It  looks  as  if  it  was  from  Nick,"  she  murmured. 

Miss  Ingate,  as  she  was  putting  on  her  spectacles, 
remarked : 

"I  hope  you  weren't  hurt — me  not  coming  with  you 
and  Musa  in  the  taxi  from  the  gardens  this  afternoon, 
dear." 

"Me?    Oh  no!" 

"It  wasn't  that  I  was  so  vehy  interested  in  my  sketch. 
But  to  my  mind  there's  nothing  more  ridiculous  than 
several  women  all  looking  after  one  man.  Miss  Thomp- 
kins  thought  so,  too." 


MISS  INGATE  POINTS  OUT  THE  DOOR     131 


m 


'Oh!  Did  she?  .  .  .  WTiat  does  Nick  say?" 
Miss  Ingate  had  put  the  letter  flat  on  the  table  in 
the  full  glare  of  the  lamp,  and  was  leaning  over  it, 
her  grey  hair  brilliantly  illuminated.  Audrey  kept  in 
the  shadow  and  in  the  distance.  Miss  Ingate  had  a 
habit  of  reading  to  herself  under  her  breath.  She  read 
slowly,  and  turned  pages  over  with  a  deliberate  move- 
ment. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Ingate  twisting  her  head  side- 
ways so  as  to  see  Audrey  standing  like  a  ghost  afar 
off.  "Well,  she  has  been  going  it!  She's  broken  a 
window  in  Oxford  Street  with  a  hammer;  she  had  one 
night  in  the  cells  for  that.  And  she'd  have  had  to  go 
to  prison  altogether  only  some  unknown  body  paid 
the  fine  for  her.  She  says :  'There  are  some  mean  per- 
sons in  the  world,  and  he  was  one.  I  feel  sure  it  was 
a  man,  and  an  American,  too.  The  owners  of  the  shops 
are  going  to  bring  a  law  action  against  me  for  the 
value  of  the  plate  glass.  It  is  such  fun.  And  our 
leaders  are  splendid  and  so  in  earnest.  They  say  we 
are  doing  a  great  historical  work,  and  we  are.  The 
London  correspondent  of  the  New  York  Times  inter- 
viewed me  because  I  am  American.  I  did  not  want  to 
be  interviewed,  but  our  instructions  are — never  to  avoid 
publicity.  There  is  to  be  no  more  window  breaking 
for  the  present.  Something  new  is  being  arranged. 
The  hammer  is  so  heavy  and  sometimes  the  first  blow 
does  not  break  the  window.  The  situation  is  very  seri- 
ous, and  the  government  is  at  its  wits'  end.  This  we 
know.  We  have  our  agents  everywhere.  All  the  most 
thoughtful  people  are  strongly  in  favour  of  votes  for 
women ;  but  of  course  some  of  them  are  afraid  of  our 
methods.  This  only  shows  that  they  have  not  learnt 
the  lessons  of  history.  I  wonder  that  you  and  dear 
Mrs.  Moncreiff  do  not  come  and  help.     Many  women 


132  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

ask  after  you,  and  everybody  at  Kingsway  is  very 
curious  to  know  Mrs.  Moncreiff.  Since  Mrs.  Burke's 
death,  Betty  has  taken  rooms  in  this  house,  but  perhaps 
Tommy  has  told  you  this  already.  If  so,  excuse. 
Betty's  health  is  very  bad  since  they  let  her  out  last. 
With  regard  to  the  rent,  will  you  pay  the  next  quarter 
direct  to  the  concierge  yourselves.'*  It  will  save  so  much 
trouble.     I  must  tell  you '  " 

Slowly  Audrey  moved  up  to  the  table  and  leaned 
over  the  letter  by  Miss  Ingate's  side. 

*'So  you  see !"  said  Miss  Ingate.  "Well,  we  must 
show  it  to  Tommy  in  the  morning.  'Not  learnt  the 
lessons  of  history,'  eh.''  I  know  who's  been  talking  to 
Nick.    /  know  as  well  as  if  I  could  hear  them  speaking." 

"Do  you  think  we  ought  to  go  to  London.'"'  Audrey 
demanded  bluntly. 

"Well,"  Miss  Ingate  answered,  with  impartial  irony 
on  her  long  upper  lip.  "I  don't  know.  Of  course  I 
played  the  organ  all  the  way  down  Regent  Street.  I 
feel  very  strongly  about  votes  for  women,  and  once 
when  I  was  helping  in  the  night  and  day  vigil  at  the 
House  of  Commons  and  some  ministers  came  out  smok- 
ing their  cigahs  and  asked  us  how  we  liked  it,  I  was 
vehy,  vehy  angry.  However,  the  next  morning  I  had 
a  cigarette  myself  and  felt  better.  But  I'm  not  a  pro- 
fessional reformer,  like  a  lot  of  them  are  at  Kingsway. 
It  isn't  my  meat  and  drink.  And  I  don't  think  it  mat- 
ters much  whether  we  get  the  vote  next  year  or  in  ten 
years.  I'm  Winifred  Ingate  before  I'm  anything  else. 
And  so  long  as  I'm  pretty  comfortable  no  one's  going 
to  make  me  believe  that  the  world's  coming  to  an  end. 
I  know  one  thing, — if  we  did  get  the  vote  it  would  take 
me  all  my  time  to  keep  most  of  the  women  I  know  from 
voting  for  something  silly." 


MISS  INGATE  POINTS  OUT  THE  DOOR     133 

"Winnie,"  said  Audrey.  "You're  very  sensible  some- 
times." 

"I'm  always  very  sensible,"  Winnie  retorted,  "until 
I  get  nervous.     Then  I'm  apt  to  skid." 

Without  more  words  they  transformed  the  studio, 
by  a  few  magical  strokes,  from  a  drawing-room  into  a 
bedroom.  Audrey,  the  last  to  retire,  extinguished  the 
lamp,  and  tripped  to  her  bed  beliind  her  screen.  Only 
a  few  slight  movements  disturbed  the  silence. 

"Winnie,"  said  Audrey  suddenly.  "I  do  believe 
you're  one  of  those  awful  people  who  compromise. 
You're  always  right  in  the  middle  of  the  raft." 

But  Miss  Ingate,  being  fast  asleep,  offered  no  answer. 


CHAPTER  XV 


THE  RIGHT  BANK 


The  next  day,  after  a  studio  lunch  which  contained 
too  much  starch  and  was  deficient  in  nitrogen,  Miss 
Ingate,  putting  on  her  hat  and  jacket,  said  with  a 
caustic  gesture: 

"Well,  I  must  be  off  to  my  life-class.  And  much 
good  may  it  do  me !" 

The  astonishing  creature  had  apparently  begun  ex- 
istence again,  and  begun  it  on  the  plane  of  art,  but 
this  did  not  prevent  the  observer  within  her  from  taking 
the  same  attitude  towards  her  second  career  as  she  had 
taken  towards  her  first.  Nothing  seemed  more  meet 
for  Miss  Ingate's  ironic  contemplation  than  the  daily 
struggle  for  style  and  beauty  in  the  academies  of  the 
Quarter. 

Audrey  made  no  reply.  The  morning  had  been  un- 
usually silent,  giving  considerable  scope  for  Miss 
Ingate's  faculty  for  leaving  well  alone. 

"I  suppose  you  aren't  coming  out?"  added  Miss 
Ingate. 

"No.  I  went  out  a  bit  this  morning.  You  know  I 
have  my  French  lesson  in  twenty  minutes.' 

"Of  course." 

Miss  Ingate  seized  her  apparatus  and  departed.  The 
instant  she  was  alone  Audrey  began  in  haste  to  change 
into  all  her  best  clothes,  which  were  black,  and  which 
the  Quarter  seldom  saw.  Fashionably  arrayed,  she  sat 
down  and  wrote  a  note  to  Madame  Schmitt,  her  French 

134 


THE  RIGHT  BANK  135 

instructress,  to  saj  that  she  had  been  suddenly  called 
away  on  urgent  business,  and  asking  her  nevertheless 
to  count  the  time  as  a  lesson  given.  This  done,  she 
put  her  credit  notes  and  her  cheque  book  into  her  hand- 
bag, and,  leaving  the  note  with  the  concierge's  wife, 
who  bristled  with  interesting  suspicions,  she  vanished 
into  Paris. 

The  weather  was  -even  more  superb  than  on  the  pre- 
vious day.  Paris  glittered  around  her  as  she  drove, 
slowly,  in  a  horse-taxi,  to  the  Place  de  I'Opera  on  the 
right  bank,  where  the  grand  boulevard  meets  the  Ave- 
nue de  I'Opera  and  the  Rue  de  la  Pais.  Here  was  the 
very  centre  of  the  fashionable  and  pleasure-ridden  dis- 
trict which  the  Quarter  held  in  noble  scorn.  She  had 
seen  it  before,  because  she  had  started  a  banking  ac- 
count (under  advice  from  Mr.  Foulger),  and  the  estab- 
lishment of  her  bankers  was  situate  at  the  corner  of 
the  Avenue  de  I'Opera  and  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  But 
she  knew  little  of  the  district,  and  such  trifling  informa- 
tion as  she  had  acquired  was  tinged  by  the  natural 
hostility  of  a  young  woman  who  for  over  six  months, 
with  no  compulsion  to  do  so,  had  toiled  regularly  and 
fiercely  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge.  She  paid  off  the 
cab,  and  went  to  test  the  soundness  of  her  bankers. 
The  place  was  full  of  tourists,  and  in  one  department 
of  it  young  men  in  cages,  who  knew  not  the  Quarter, 
were  counting,  and  ladling,  and  pinning  together,  and 
engorging,  and  dealing  forth,  the  currency  and  notes 
of  all  the  great  nations  of  the  earth.  The  spectacle 
was  inspiring. 

In  half  a  year  the  restive  but  finally  obedient  Mr. 
Foulger  had  sent  three  thousand  pounds  to  Paris  in 
the  unpoetic  form  of  small  oblong  pieces  of  paper 
signed  with  his  own  dull  signature.  Audrey  desired  to 
experience  the  thrill  of  authentic  money.     She  waited 


136  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

some  time  in  front  of  a  cage,  with  her  cheque  boot 
open  on  the  counter,  until  a  young  man  glanced  at  her 
interrogatively  through  the  bars. 

"How  much  money  have  I  got  here,  please?"  she 
asked.  She  ought  to  have  said :  "What  is  my  balance, 
please?"  But  nobody  had  taught  her  the  sacred 
formula. 

"What  name?"  said  the  clerk. 

"Moze — ^Audrey  Moze,"  she  answered,  for  she  had 
not  dared  to  acquaint  Mr.  Foulger  with  her  widow- 
hood, and  his  cheques  were  made  out  to  herself. 

The  clerk  vanished,  and  in  a  moment  reappeared, 
silently  wrote  something  on  a  little  form,  and  pushed 
it  to  her  under  the  grill.     She  read:    73,065  frs.    50c. 

The  fact  was  that  in  six  months  she  had  spent  little 
more  than  the  amount  which  she  had  brought  with  her 
from  London.  Having  begun  in  simplicity,  in  sim- 
plicity she  had  continued,  partly  because  she  had  been 
too  industrious  and  too  earnest  for  luxurious  caprices, 
partly  because  she  had  never  been  accustomed  to  any- 
thing else  but  simplicity,  and  partly  from  wilfulness. 
It  had  pleased  her  to  think  that  she  was  piling  tens 
of  thousands  upon  tens  of  thousands — in  francs. 

But  in  the  night  she  had  decided  that  the  moment 
had  arrived  for  a  change  in  the  great  campaign  of 
seeing  life  and  tasting  it. 

She  timorously  drew  a  cheque  for  eleven  thousand 
francs,  and  asked  for  ten  thousand  in  notes  and  a 
thousand  in  gold.  The  clerk  showed  no  trace  of  cither 
astonishment  or  alarm ;  but  he  insisted  on  her  endorsing 
the  cheque.  When  she  saw  the  gold,  she  changed  half 
of  it  for  ten  notes  of  fifty  francs  each. 

Emerging  with  false  but  fairly  plausible  nonchalance 
from  the  crowded  establishment,  where  other  clerks  were 
selling  tickets  to  Palestine,  Timbuctoo,  Bagdad,  Ber- 


THE  RIGHT  BANK  137 

lin  and  all  the  abodes  of  happiness  in  the  world,  she 
saw  at  the  newspaper  kiosque  opposite  the  little  blue 
poster  of  an  English  daily.  It  said:  "More  Suffragette 
Riots."  She  had  a  qualm,  for  her  conscience  was  apt 
to  be  tyrannic,  and  its  empire  over  her  had  been 
strengthened  by  the  long,  steady  course  of  hard  work 
which  she  had  accomplished.  Miss  Ingate's  arguments 
had  not  placated  that  conscience.  It  had  said  to  her  in 
the  night :  "If  ever  there  was  a  girl  who  ought  to  assist 
heartily  in  the  emancipation  of  women,  that  girl  is  you, 
Audrey  Moze." 

"Pooh !"  she  replied  to  her  conscience,  for  she  could 
always  confute  it  with  a  sharp  word — for  a  time. 

And  she  crossed  to  the  grand  boulevard,  and  turned 
westward  along  the  splendid,  humming,  roaring  thor- 
oughfare gay  with  flags  and  gleaming  with  such  plate 
glass  as  Nick  the  militant  would  have  loved  to  shatter. 
Certainly  there  was  nothing  like  this  street  in  the 
Quarter.  The  Quarter  could  equal  it  neither  in  shops, 
nor  in  cafes,  nor  in  vehicles,  nor  in  crowds.  It  was  an 
exultant  thoroughfare,  and  Audrey  caught  its  buoy- 
ancy, which  could  be  distinctly  seen  in  the  feather  on 
her  hat.  At  the  end  of  it  she  passed  into  the  cool  shade 
of  a  music-shop  with  the  name  "Durand"  on  its  fa9ade. 
She  had  found  the  address,  and  another  one,  in  the 
telephone-book  at  the  Cafe  de  Versailles  that  morning. 
It  was  an  immense  shop  containing  millions  of  pieces 
of  music  for  all  instruments  and  all  tastes.  Yet  when 
she  modestly  asked  for  the  Caprice  for  violin  of  Roussel, 
the  morceau  was  brought  to  her  without  the  slightest 
hesitation,  together  with  the  pianoforte  accompani- 
ment.    The  price  was  twelve  francs. 

Her  gloved  hand  closed  round  the  slim  roll  with  the 
delicate  firmness  which  was  actuating  all  her  proceed- 
ings on  that  magnificent  afternoon.      She  was   deter- 


138  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

mined  to  save  Musa  not  merely  from  himself,  but  from 
Miss  Thompkins  and  everybody.  It  was  not  that  she 
was  specially  interested  in  Musa.  No !  She  was  inter- 
ested in  a  clean,  neat  job, — that  was  all.  She  had  begun 
to  take  charge  of  Musa,  and  she  intended  to  carry  the 
affair  through.  He  had  the  ability  to  succeed,  and 
he  should  succeed.  It  would  be  ridiculous  for  him  not 
to  succeed.  From  certain  hints,  and  from  a  deeply 
sagacious  instinct,  she  had  divined  that  money  and 
management  were  the  only  ingredients  lacking  to 
Musa's  triumph.  She  could  supply  both  these  elements ; 
and  she  would.  And  her  reward  would  he  the  pride  of 
the  workman  in  his  job. 

Now  her  firmness  hesitated.  She  retraced  the  boule- 
vard to  the  Place  de  I'Opera,  and  then  took  the  Rue  de 
la  Paix.  In  the  first  shop  on  the  left  hand  side,  next 
to  her  bankers,  she  saw,  amid  a  dazzling  collection  of 
jewelled  articles  for  travellers  and  letter-writers  and 
diary-keepers,  a  sublime  gold  handbag,  or,  as  the 
French  say,  hand-sack.  Its  clasp  was  set  with  a 
sapphire.  Impulse  sent  her  gliding  right  into  the  shop, 
with  the  words  already  on  her  lips :  "How  much  is  that 
gold  hand-sack  in  the  window  .f"'  But  when  she  reached 
the  hushed  and  shadowed  interior,  which  was  furnished 
like  a  drawing-room  with  soft  carpets  and  tapestried 
chairs,  she  beheld  dozens  of  gold  hand-sacks  glinting 
like  secret  treasure  in  a  cave ;  and  she  was  embarrassed 
by  the  number  and  variety  of  them.  A  well  dressed 
and  affable  lady  and  gentleman,  with  a  quite  remark- 
able similarity  of  prominent  noses,  welcomed  her  in 
general  terms,  and  seemed  surprised,  and  even  a  little 
pained,  when  she  talked  about  buying  and  selling.  She 
came  out  of  the  shop  with  a  gold  hand-sack  which  had 
cost  twelve  hundred  francs,  and  all  her  money  was  in  it. 

Fortified  by  the  impressive  bauble,  she  walked  along 


THE  RIGHT  BANK  139 

the  street  to  the  Place  Vendome,  where  she  descried  in 
the  distance  the  ghttering  signs  and  arms  of  the  Hotel 
du  Danube.  Then  she  walked  up  the  opposite  pave- 
ment of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  and  down  again  and  up 
again  until  she  had  grasped  its  significance. 

It  was  a  street  of  jewellery,  perfumes,  antiques, 
gloves,  hats,  frocks,  and  furs.  It  was  a  stret  wherein 
the  lily  was  painted  and  gold  was  gilded.  Every  window 
was  a  miracle  of  taste,  refinement,  and  costliness.  Every 
article  in  every  window  was  so  dear  that  no  article  was 
ticketed  with  its  price,  save  a  few  wafer-like  watches 
and  jewelled  rings  that  bore  tiny  figures  such  as  12,500 
francs,  40,000  francs.  Despite  her  wealth,  Audrey  felt 
poor.  The  upper  windows  of  nearly  all  the  great  build- 
ings were  arrayed  with  plants  in  full  bloom.  The 
roadway  was  covered  with  superb  automobiles,  some 
of  them  nearly  as  long  as  trains.  About  half  of  them 
stood  in  repose  at  the  kerb,  and  Audrey  as  she  strolled 
could  see  through  their  panes  of  bevelled  glass  the  com- 
plex luxury  within  of  toy-dogs,  clocks,  writing-pads, 
mirrors,  powder-boxes,  parasols,  and  the  lounging 
arrogance  of  uniformed  menials.  At  close  intervals 
women  passed  rapidly  across  the  pavements  to  or  from 
these  automobiles.  If  they  were  leaving  a  shop,  the 
automobile  sprang  into  life,  dogs,  menials,  and  all,  the 
door  was  opened,  the  woman  slipped  in  like  a  mechan- 
ical toy,  the  door  banged,  the  menial  jumped,  and  with 
trumpet  tones  the  entire  machine  curved  and  swept 
away.  The  aspect  of  these  women  made  Audrey  feel 
glad  that  she  was  wearing  her  best  clothes,  and  simul- 
taneously made  her  feel  that  her  best  clothes  were  worse 
than  useless. 

She  saw  an  automobile  shop  with  a  card  at  the  door : 
"Town  and  touring  cars  for  hire  by  day,  week,  or 
month."     A  gorgeous  Mercedes,  too  spick,  too  span. 


140  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

altogether  too  celestial  for  earthly  use,  occupied  most 
of  the  shop. 

"Good  afternoon,  Madame,"  said  a  man  in  bad  Eng- 
lish. For  Audrey  had  misguided  herself  into  the 
emporium.  She  did  not  care  to  be  addressed  in  her 
own  tongue;  she  even  objected  to  the  instant  discovery 
of  her  nationality,  of  which  at  the  moment  she  was 
ashamed.  And  so  it  was  with  frigidity  that  she  en- 
quired whether  cars  were  to  be  hired. 

The  shopman  hesitated.  Audrey  knew  that  she  had 
committed  an  indiscretion.  It  was  impossible  that  cars 
should  be  handed  out  thus  unceremoniously  to  anybody 
who  had  the  fancy  to  enter  the  shop !  Cars  were  nat- 
urally the  subject  of  negotiations  and  references  .  .  . 
And  then  the  shopman,  espying  the  gold  bag,  and  being 
by  it  and  by  the  English  frigidity  humbled  to  his  proper 
station,  fawned  and  replied  that  he  had  cars  for  hire, 
and  the  best  cars.  Did  the  lady  want  a  large  car  or  a 
small  car.''  She  wanted  a  large  car.  Did  she  want  a 
town  or  a  touring  car?  She  wanted  a  town  car, 
and  by  the  week.  When  did  she  want  it?  She  wanted 
it  at  once — in  half  an  hour. 

"I  can  hire  you  a  car  in  half  an  hour,  with  liveried 
chauffeur,"  said  the  shopman,  after  telephoning.  "But 
he  cannot  speak  English." 

"^a  TTi'est  cgal,"  answered  Audrey  with  grim  satis- 
faction.    "What  kind  of  a  car  will  it  be?" 

"Mercedes,  Madam." 

The  price  was  eight  hundred  francs  a  week,  inclu- 
sive. As  Audrey  was  paying  for  the  first  week  the  man 
murmured : 

"What  address.  Madam?" 

"Hotel  du  Danube,"  she  answered  like  lightning — in- 
deed far  quicker  than  thought.  "But  I  shall  call  here 
for  the  car.    It  must  be  waiting  outside." 


THE  RIGHT  BANK  141 

The  dispenser  of  cars  bowed. 

"Can  you  get  a  taxi  for  me?"  Audrey  suggested.  "I 
will  leave  this  roll  here  and  this  bag,"  producing  her 
old  handbag  which  she  had  concealed  under  her  coat. 
And  she  thought:    "All  this  is  really  very  simple." 

At  the  other  address  which  she  had  found  in  the 
telephone-book — a  house  in  the  Rue  d'Aumale — she  said 
to  an  aged  concierge: 

"Monsieur  Foa — which  floor.''" 

A  very  dark,  rather  short  and  negligently  dressed 
man  of  early  middle-aged  who  was  descending  the  stair- 
case, raised  his  hat  with  grave  ceremony : 

"Pardon,  Madame.     Foa — it  is  I." 

Audrey  was  not  prepared  for  this  encounter.  She 
had  intended  to  compose  her  face  and  her  speech  while 
mounting  the  staircase.     She  blushed. 

"I  come  from  Musa — the  violinist,"  she  began  hesi- 
tatingly, "You  invited  him  to  play  at  your  flat  on 
Friday  night,  Monsieur." 

Monsieur  Foa  gave  a  sudden  enchanting  smile: 

"Yes,  madame.  I  hear  much  good  of  him  from  my 
friend  Dauphin,  much  good.  And  we  long  to  hear  him 
play.     It  appears  he  is  a  great  artist." 

"He  has  had  an  accident,"  said  Audrey.  Monsieur 
Foa's  face  grew  serious.  "It  is  nothing — a  few  days. 
The  elbow — a  trifle.  He  cannot  play  next  Friday. 
But  he  will  be  desolated  if  he  may  not  play  to  you  later. 
He  has  so  few  friends  ...  I  came  ...  I  ...  " 

"Madame,  every  Friday  we  are  at  home,  every  Fri- 
day. My  wife  will  be  ravished.  I  shall  be  ravished. 
Believe  me.     Let  him  be  reassured." 

"Monsieur,  you  are  too  amiable.     I  shall  tell  Musa." 

"Musa,  he  may  have  few  friends — it  is  possible, 
Madame — but  he  is  nevertheless  fortunate,  ^tl-'dame 
is  English,  is  it  not  so.'^    My  wife  and  I  adore  England 


142  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

and  the  English.  For  us  there  is  only  England.  If 
Madame  would  do  us  the  honour  of  coming  when  Musa 
plays  .  .  .  My  wife  will  send  an  invitation,  to  the  end 
of  remaining  within  the  rules.  You,  Madame,  and  any 
of  your  friends." 

"Monsieur  is  too  amiable,  truly." 

In  the  end  they  were  standing  together  on  the  pave- 
ment by  the  waiting  taxi.  She  gave  him  her  card,  and 
breathed  the  words  "Hotel  du  Danube."  He  was  en- 
chanted. She  offered  her  hand.  He  took  it,  raised  it, 
and  kissed  the  back  of  it.  Then  he  stood  with  his  hat 
off  until  she  had  passed  from  his  sight. 

Audrey  was  burning  with  excitement.  She  said  to 
herself : 

"I  have  discovered  Paris." 

When  the  taxi  turned  again  into  the  Rue  de  la  Paix, 
she  thought: 

"The  car  will  not  be  waiting.  It  would  be  too  lovely 
if  it  were." 

But  there  the  car  was,  huge,  glistening,  unreal,  in- 
credible. And  a  chauffeur  gloved  and  liveried  in  brown, 
to  match  the  car,  stood  by  its  side,  and  the  shopman 
was  at  the  door,  holding  the  Caprice  of  Roussel  and 
the  old  handbag  ready  in  his  hand. 

"Here  is  Madame,"  said  he. 

The  chauffeur  saluted. 

The  car  was  closed. 

"Will  Madame  have  the  carriage  open  or  closed?" 

"Closed." 

Having  paid  the  taxi-driver,  Audrey  entered  the  car, 
and  as  she  did  so,  she  threw  over  her  shoulder : 

"Hotel  du  Danube." 

While  the  chauffeur  started  the  engine,  the  shopman 
with  brilliant  smiles  delivered  the  music  and  the  bag. 
The  door  clicked.     Audrey  noticed  the  clock,  the  rug, 


THE  RIGHT  BANK  143 

the  powder-box,  the  speaking-tube,  and  the  mirror. 
She  gazed,  and  saw  a  face  triumphant  and  delicious  in 
the  mirror.  The  car  began  to  ghde  forward.  She 
leaned  back  against  the  pale  grey  upholstery,  but  in  her 
soul  she  was  standing  and  crying  with  a  wild  wave  of 
the  hand,  to  the  whole  street: 

"It  is  a  miracle  !" 

In  a  moment  the  gigantic  car  stopped  in  front  of 
the  Hotel  du  Danube.  Two  attendants  rushed  out  in 
uniforms  of  delicate  blue.  They  did  not  touch  their 
hats — they  raised  them.  Audrey  descended  and  pene- 
trated into  the  portico,  where  a  tall  dandy  saluted  and 
enquired  her  will.  She  wanted  rooms ;  she  wanted  a 
flat.?  Certainly.  They  had  nothing  but  flats.  A  large 
flat  on  the  ground-floor  was  at  her  disposal  absolutely. 
Two  bedrooms,  sitting-room,  bathroom.  It  had  its  own 
private  entrance  in  the  courtyard.  She  inspected  it. 
The  suite  was  furnished  in  the  Empire  style.  Herself 
and  maid.?  No.  A  friend!  Well,  the  maids  could 
sleep  upstairs.  It  could  arrange  itself.  She  had  no 
maid.?  Her  friend  had  no  maid.?  Ah!  So  much  the 
better.     Sixty  francs  a  day. 

"Where  is  the  dining-room.?"  demanded  Audrey. 

"Madame,"  said  the  dandy,  shocked.  "We  have  no 
dining-room.  All  meals  are  specially  cooked  to  order 
and  served  in  the  private  rooms.  We  have  the  reputa- 
tion ..."     He  opened  his  arms  and  bowed. 

Good!  Good!  She  would  return  with  her  friend  in 
one  hour  or  so. 

"106  Rue  Delambre,"  she  bade  the  chauffeur,  after 
being  followed  to  the  pavement  by  the  dandy  and  a 
suite. 

"Rue  de  Londres?"  said  the  chauff'eur. 

"No.     Rue  Delambre." 

It  had  to  be  looked  out  on  the  map,  but  the  chauff'eur, 


144  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

trained  to  the  hour,  did  not  blench.  However,  when 
he  found  the  Rue  Delambre,  the  success  with  which  he 
repudiated  it  was  complete. 

"Winnie !"  began  Audrey  in  the  studio,  with  assumed 
indifference.     Miss  Ingate  was  at  tea. 

"Oh!   You  are  a  swell.     Where  you  been.'"' 

"Winnie !  What  do  you  say  to  going  and  living  on 
the  right  bank  for  a  bit?" 

"Well,  well!"  said  Miss  Ingate.  "So  that's  it,  is  it.? 
I've  been  ready  to  go  for  a  long  time.  Of  course  you 
want  to  go  first  thing  to-morrow  morning.  I  know 
you." 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Audrey.  "I  want  to  go  to-night. 
Now !  Pack  the  trunks  quick.  I've  got  the  finest  auto 
you  ever  saw  waiting  at  the  door." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ROBES 

On  the  second  following  Friday  evening,  Audrey's 
suite  of  rooms  at  the  Hotel  du  Danube  glowed  in  every 
corner  with  pink-shaded  electricity.  According  to  what 
Audrey  had  everywhere  observed  to  he  the  French  cus- 
tom, there  was  in  this  flat  the  minimum  of  corridor 
and  the  maximum  of  doors.  Each  room  communicated 
dii'ectly  with  all  the  other  rooms.  The  doors  were  open, 
and  three  women  continually  in  a  feverish  elation  passed 
to  and  fro.  Empire  chairs  and  sofas  were  covered  with 
rich  garments  of  every  colour  and  form  and  material, 
from  the  transparent  blue  silk  matinee  to  the  dark 
heavy  cloak  of  velvet  ornamented  with  fur.  The  place 
was  in  fact  very  like  the  showrooms  of  a  cosmopolitan 
dressmaker  after  a  vast  trying-on.  Sundry  cosmopoli- 
tan dressmakers  had  contributed  to  the  rich  confusion. 
None  had  hesitated  for  an  instant  to  execute  Audrey's 
commands.  They  had  all  been  waiting,  apparently 
since  the  beginning  of  time,  to  serve  her.  All  that  dis- 
trict of  Paris  had  been  thus  waiting.  The  flat  had 
been  waiting,  the  automobile  had  been  waiting,  the 
chauffeur  had  been  waiting,  and  purveyors  of  every 
sort.  A  word  from  her  seemed  to  have  released  them 
from  an  enchantment.  For  the  most  part  they  were 
strange  people,  these  magical  attendants,  never  men- 
tioning money,  but  rather  deprecating  the  sound  of  it, 
and  content  to  supply  nothing  but  the  finest  produc- 
tions   of    their    unquestionable   genius.      Still,   Audrey 

145 


146  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

reckoned  that  she  owed  about  twenty-five  thousand 
francs  to  Paris. 

The  third  woman  was  the  maid,  Elise.  The  hotel 
had  invented  and  dehvered  Ehse,  and  thereafter  seemed 
easier  in  its  mind.  Ehse  was  thirty  years  of  age  and 
not  repellent  of  aspect.  On  a  black  dress  she  wore  the 
smallest  white  muslin  apron  that  either  Audrey  or  Miss 
Ingate  had  ever  seen.  She  kept  pins  in  her  mouth,  but 
in  other  respects  showed  few  eccentricities  beyond  an 
extreme  excitability.  When  at  eight  o'clock  Mademoi- 
selle's new  gown,  promised  for  seven,  had  not  arrived, 
Elise  begged  permission  to  use  Madame's  salts.  When 
the  bell  rang  at  eight-thirty,  and  a  lackey  brought  in 
an  oval-shaped  box  with  a  long  loop  to  it  of  leathern 
strap,  she  only  just  managed  not  to  kiss  the  lackey. 
The  rapid  movement  of  Mademoiselle  and  Elise  with 
the  contents  of  the  box  from  the  drawing-room  into 
Mademoiselle's  bedroom  was  the  last  rushing  and  swish- 
ing that  preceded  a  considerable  peace. 

Madame  was  absolutely  ready,  in  her  bedroom.  In 
the  large  mirror  of  the  dark  wardrobe  she  surveyed  her 
victoriously  young  face,  the  magnificent  grey  dress,  the 
coiffure,  the  jewels,  the  spangled  shoes,  the  fan;  and 
the  ensemble  satisfied  her.  She  was  intensely  and  calmly 
happy.  No  thought  of  the  past  nor  of  the  future,  nor 
of  what  was  going  on  in  other  parts  of  the  earth's 
surface  could  in  the  slightest  degree  impair  her  happi- 
ness. She  had  done  nothing  herself,  she  had  neither 
earned  mone^'^  nor  created  any  of  the  objects  which 
adorned  her ;  nor  was  she  capable  of  doing  the  one  or 
the  other.  Yet  she  felt  proud  as  well  as  happy,  be- 
cause she  was  young  and  superbly  healthy,  and  not  un- 
attractive. These  were  her  high  virtues.  And  her 
attitude  was  so  right  that  nobody  would  have  disagreed 
with  her. 


ROBES  147 

Her  left  ear  was  listening  for  the  sound,  through  the 
unlatched  window,  of  the  arrival  of  the  automobile  with 
Musa  and  his  fiddle  inside  it. 

Then  the  door  leading  from  Mademoiselle's  bedroom 
opened  sharply,  and  Mademoiselle  appeared,  with  her 
grey  hair,  her  pale  shining  forehead,  her  sardonic  grin, 
and  the  new  dress  of  those  Empire  colours,  magenta, 
and  green.  Elise  stood  behind,  trembling  with  satisfac- 
tion. 

"Well "  Audrey  began.  But  she  heard  the  auto- 
mobile, and  told  Elise  to  run  and  be  ready  to  open  the 
front-door  of  the  flat. 

"Rather  showy,  isn't  it?  Rather  daring?"  said  Miss 
Ingate,  advancing  self-consciously  and  self-deprecat- 
ingly. 

"Winnie,"  answered  Audrey.  "It's  a  nice  question 
between  you  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba." 

Suddenly  Miss  Ingate  beheld  in  the  mirror  the 
masterpiece  of  an  illustrious  male  dressmaker — a  mas- 
terpiece in  which  no  touch  of  the  last  fashion  was  abated 
— and  little  Essex  Winnie  grinning  from  within  it. 

She  screamed.  And  forthwith  putting  her  hands  be- 
hind her  neck  she  began  to  unhook  the  corsage. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Winnie?" 

"I'm  taking  it  ofF." 

"But  why.?" 

"Because  I'm  not  going  to  wear  it." 

"But  you've  nothing  else  to  wear." 

"I  can't  help  that." 

"But  you  can't  come.    What  on  earth  shall  you  do?" 

"I  daresay  I  shall  go  to  bed.  Or  I  might  shoot  my- 
self. But  if  you  think  that  I'm  going  outside  this  room 
in  this  dress,  you're  a  perfect  simpleton,  Audrey.  I 
don't  mind  being  a  fool,  but  I  won't  look  one." 

Audrey  heard  Musa  enter  the  drawing-room. 


148  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

She  pulled  the  door  to,  keeping  her  hand  on  the  knob. 

"Very  well,  Winnie,"  she  said  coldly,  and  swept  into 
the  drawing-room. 

As  she  and  Musa  left  the  pink  rose-shaded  flat,  she 
heard  a  burst  of  tears  from  Elise  in  the  bedroom. 

"21,  Rue  d'Aumale,"  she  curtly  ordered  the  chauf- 
feur, who  sat  like  a  god  obscurely  in  front  of  the 
illuminated  interior  of  the  carriage.  Musa's  viohn-case 
lay  amid  the  cusliions  therein. 

The  chauffeur  approvingly  touched  his  hat.  The 
Rue  d'Aumale  was  a  good  street. 

"I  wonder  what  his  surname  is.'"'  Audrey  thought 
curiously.  "And  whether  he's  in  love  or  married,  and 
h?.s  children."  She  knew  nothing  of  him  save  that  his 
Christian  name  was  Michel. 

She  was  taciturn  and  severe  with  Musa. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


SOIEEE 


"MoNSiEUE  Fo^ — which  floor?"  Audrey  asked  once 
again  of  the  aged  concierge  in  the  Rue  d'Aumale.  This 
time  she  got  an  answer.  It  was  the  fifth  or  top  floor. 
Musa  said  nothing,  permitting  himself  to  be  taken  about 
like  a  parcel,  though  with  a  more  graceful  passivity. 
There  was  no  lift,  but  at  each  floor  a  cushioned  seat 
for  travellers  to  use  and  a  palm  in  a  coloured  pot  in  a 
niche  for  travellers  to  gaze  upon  as  they  rested.  The 
quality  of  the  palms,  however,  deteriorated  floor  by 
floor,  and  on  the  fourth  and  fifth  floors  the  niches  were 
empty.  A  broad  embroidered  bell-pull,  twitched,  gave 
rise  to  one  clanging  sound  within  the  abode  of  the  Foas, 
and  the  clanging  sound  reacted  upon  a  small  dog  which 
yapped  loudly  and  continued  to  yap  until  the  visitors 
had  entered  and  the  door  been  closed  again.  Monsieur 
came  out  of  a  room  into  the  small  entrance-hall,  accom- 
panied by  a  considerable  noise  of  conversation.  He 
beamed  his  ravishment ;  he  kissed  hands ;  he  helped  with 
the  dark  blue  cloak. 

"I  brought  Monsieur  Musa  in  my  car,"  said  Audrey. 
"The  weather " 

Monsieur  Foa  bowed  low  to  Monsieur  Musa,  and 
Monsieur  Musa  bowed  low  to  Monsieur  Foa. 

"Monsieur !" 

"Monsieur !" 

"Monsieur,  your  accident  I  hope  ..." 

And  so  on. 

149 


150  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Cloak,  overcoat,  hat,  stick, — everything  except  the 
viohn-case — were  thrown  pell-mell  onto  a  piece  of  fur- 
niture in  the  entrance-hall.  Monsieur  Foa,  instead  of 
being  in  evening-dress,  was  in  exactly  the  same  clothes 
as  he  had  worn  at  his  first  meeting  with  Audrey. 

Madame  Foa  appeared  in  the  doorway.  She  was  a 
slim  blonde  Italian  of  pure  descent,  whereas  only  the 
paternal  grandfather  of  Monsieur  Foa  had  been  Italian. 
Madame  Foa,  who  had  called  on  Audrey  at  the  Danube, 
exhibited  the  same  symptoms  of  pleasure  as  her 
husband. 

"But  your  friend.''     But  your  friend?"  cried  she. 

Audrey,  being  led  gradually  into  the  drawing-room, 
explained  that  Miss  Ingate  had  been  prevented  at  the 
last  moment,  etc.,  etc. 

The  distinction  of  Madame  Foa's  simple  dress  had 
reassured  Audrey  to  a  certain  extent,  but  the  size  of 
the  drawing-room  disconcerted  her  again.  She  had 
understood  that  the  house  of  the  Foas  was  the  real 
esoteric  centre  of  musical  Paris,  and  she  had  prepared 
herself  for  vast  and  luxurious  salons,  footmen,  foun- 
tains of  wine,  rare  flowers,  dandies,  and  the  divine 
shoulders  of  operatic  sopranos  who  combined  wit  with 
the  most  seductive  charm.  The  drawing-room  of  the 
Foas  was  not  as  large  as  her  own  drawing-room  at  the 
Danube.  Still  it  was  full,  and  double  doors  leading  to 
an  unseen  dining-room  at  right  angles  to  its  length 
produced  an  illusion  of  space.  Some  of  the  men  and 
some  of  the  women  were  elegant,  and  even  very  elegant ; 
others  were  not.  Audrey  instantly  with  her  expert  eye 
saw  that  the  pictures  on  the  walls  were  of  the  last  cor- 
rectness, and  a  few  by  illustrious  painters.  Here  and 
there  she  could  see  scrawled  on  them  "a  mon  ami,  Andre 
Foa."  Such  phenomena  were  balm.  Everybody  in  the 
room  was  presented  to  her,  and  with  the  greatest  partic- 


SOIREE  151 

ularity,  and  the  host  and  hostess  gazed  on  her  as  on  an 
idol,  a  jewel,  an  exquisite  and  startling  discovery.  Musa 
found  two  men  he  knew.  The  conversation  was  resumed 
with  energy. 

"And  now,"  said  Madame  Foa  in  English,  sitting 
down  intimately  beside  Audrey,  with  a  loving  gesture, 
"We  will  have  a  little  talk,  you  and  I.  I  find  our  friend 
Madame  Piriac  met  you  last  year." 

"Ah !  Yes,"  murmured  Audrey,  fatally  struck,  but 
admirably  dissembling,  for  she  was  determined  to 
achieve  the  evening  successfully.  "Madame  Piriac,  will 
she  come  to-night?" 

"I  fear  not,"  replied  Madame  Foa.  "She  would  if 
she  could." 

"I  should  so  like  to  have  seen  her  again,"  said  Audrey 
eagerly.  She  was  so  relieved  at  Madame  Piriac's  not 
coming,  that  she  felt  she  could  afford  to  be  eager. 

And  Monsieur  Foa,  a  little  distance  off,  threw  a  sign 
into  the  duologue,  and  called: 

"You  permit  me.''  Your  dress  .  .  .  Exquise! 
Exquise!  And  these  pigs  of  French  persist  in  saying 
that  the  English  lack  taste!"  He  clapped  his  hand 
to  his  forehead  in  despair  of  the  French. 

Then  the  clanging  sound  supervened,  and  the  little 
fox-terrier  yapped,  and  Monsieur  Foa  went  out,  ejacu- 
lating "Ah !"  and  Madame  Foa  went  into  the  doorway. 
Audrey  glanced  round  for  Musa,  but  he  was  out  of 
sight  in  the  dining-room.  Several  people  turned  at  once 
and  spoke  to  her,  including  two  composers  who  had 
probably  composed  more  impossibilities  for  amateur 
pianists  than  any  other  two  men  who  ever  hved,  and  a 
musical  critic  with  large  dark  eyes  and  an  eastern  air, 
who  had  come  from  the  Opera  very  sarcastic  about  the 
Opera.  One  of  the  composers  asked  the  critic  whether 
he  had  not  heard  Musa  play. 


152  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"Yes,"  said  the  critic.  "I  heard  him  in  the  Ternes 
Quarter  —  somewhere.  He  plays  very  agreeably. 
Madame,"  he  addressed  Audrey.  "I  was  discussing 
with  these  gentlemen  whether  it  be  not  possible  to  define 
the  principle  of  beauty  in  music.  Once  it  is  defined, 
my  trade  will  be  much  simplified,  you  see.  What  say 
you?" 

How  could  she  discourse  on  the  principle  of  beauty 
in  music  when  she  had  the  whole  weight  of  the  evening 
on  her  shoulders  .^  Musa  was  the  whole  weight  of  the 
evening.  Would  he  succeed?  She  was  his  mother,  his 
manager,  his  creator.  He  was  her  handiwork.  If  he 
failed  she  would  have  failed.  That  was  her  sole  interest 
in  him,  but  it  was  an  overwhelming  interest.  When 
would  he  be  asked  to  play?  Useless  for  them  to  flatter 
her  about  her  dress,  to  treat  her  like  a  rarity,  if  they 
offered  callous,  careless,  ofF-hand  remarks,  such  as  "He 
plays  very  agreebly." 

She  stammered : 

"I — I  only  know  what  I  like." 

One  of  the  composers  jumped  up  excitedly: 

**Voila!  Madame  has  said  the  final  word.  You  hear 
me,  the  final  word,  the  most  profound.  Argue  as  you 
will,  perfect  the  art  of  criticism  to  no  matter  what 
point,  and  you  wiU  never  get  beyond  the  final  word 
of  Madame." 

The  critic  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  with  a  smile 
bowed  to  the  ravishing  utterer  of  last  words  on  the  most 
bafiiing  of  subjects.  This  fluttered  person  soon  per- 
ceived that  she  had  been  mistaken  in  supposing  that 
the  room  was  full.  The  clanging  sound  kept  recurring, 
the  dog  kept  barking,  and  new  guests  continually 
poured  into  the  room,  thereby  proving  that  it  was  not 
full.  All  comers  were  introduced  to  Audrey,  whose 
head  was  a  dizzy  riot  of  strange  names.     Then  at  last 


SOIREE  153 

a  girl  sang,  and  was  applauded.  Madame  Foa  played 
for  her.  "Now,"  thought  Audrey,  "they  will  ask  Musa." 
Then  one  of  the  composers  played  the  piano,  his  themes 
punctuated  by  the  clanging  sound  and  by  the  dog.  The 
room  was  asphyxiating,  but  no  one  except  Audrey 
seemed  to  be  inconvenienced.  Then  several  guests  rang 
in  quick  succession. 

"Madame !"  the  suave  and  ardent  voice  of  Foa  could 
be  heard  in  the  entrance-hall.  "And  thou,  Roussell 
.  .  .  Ippolita,  Ippolita!"  he  called  to  his  wife.  "It  is 
Roussel." 

Audrey  did  not  turn  her  head.  She  could  not.  But 
presently  Roussel,  in  a  blue  suit  with  a  wonderful  flow- 
ing bow  of  a  black  necktie  in  crcye  de  chine,  was  led 
before  her.  And  Musa  was  led  before  Roussel.  Audrey, 
from  nervousness,  was  moved  to  relate  the  history  of 
Musa's  accident  to  Roussel. 

The  moment  had  arrived.  Roussel  sat  down  to  the 
piano.    Musa  tuned  his  fiddle. 

"From  what  appears,"  murmured  Monsieur  Foa  to 
nobody  in  particular,  with  an  ecstatic  expectant  smile 
on  his  face,  "this  Musa  is  all  that  is  most  amazing." 

Then,  in  the  silence,  the  clanging  sound  was  renewed, 
and  the  fox-terrier  reacted. 

"Andre,  my  friend,"  cried  Madame  Foa,  skipping 
into  the  hall.  "Will  you  do  me  the  pleasure  of  ex- 
terminating this  dog."^" 

Delicate  osculatory  explosions  and  pretty  exclama- 
tions in  the  hall !  The  hostess  was  encountering  an  old 
friend.  There  was  also  a  man's  deep  English  voice. 
Then  a  hush.  The  man's  voice  produced  a  very  strange 
effect  upon  Audrey.  Roussel  began  to  play.  Musa 
held  his  bow  aloft.  Creeping  steps  in  the  doorway 
made  Audrey  look  round.  A  lady  smiled  and  bowed 
to  her.     It  was  Madame  Piriac,  resplendent  and  serene. 


154  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Musa  played  the  caprice.  Audrey  did  not  hear  him, 
partly  because  the  vision  of  Madame  Piriac,  and  the 
man's  deep  voice,  had  extremely  perturbed  her,  and 
partly  because  she  was  so  desperately  anxious  for 
Musa's  triumph.  She  had  decided  that  she  could  make 
his  triumph  here  the  prelude  to  tremendous  things. 
When  he  had  finished  she  held  her  breath.   .   .   . 

The  applause,  after  an  instant,  was  sudden  and  ex- 
tremely cordial.  Monsieur  Foa  loudly  clapped,  smiling 
at  Audrey.  Roussel  patted  Musa  on  the  back  and 
chattered  to  him  fondly.  On  each  side  of  her  Audrey 
could  catch  murmured  exclamations  of  delight.  Musa 
himself  was  certainly  pleased  and  happy  .  .  .  He  had 
played  at  Foa's,  where  it  was  absolutely  essential  to 
play  if  one  intended  to  conquer  Paris  and  to  prove  one's 
pretensions ;  and  he  had  found  favour  with  this  satiated 
and  fastidious  audience. 

"Ow/.'"  sighed  the  musical  critic  orientally  lounging 
on  a  chair.  "Andre,  has  it  occurred  to  you  that  we 
are  expiring  for  want  of  air.?" 

A  window  was  opened,  and  a  shiver  went  through 
the  assembly. 

The  clanging  sounded  again,  but  no  dog,  for  the 
dog  had  been  exterminated. 

"Dauphin,  my  old  pig!"  Foa's  greeting  from  the 
entrance  floated  into  the  drawing-room,  and  then  a  very 
impressed :  "Mademoiselle"  from  Madame  Foa. 

"What.'"'  cried  Dauphin.  "Musa  has  played?  He 
played  well.?  So  much  the  better.  What  did  I  tell 
you.?" 

And  he  entered  the  drawing-room  with  the  satisfied 
air  of  having  fed  Musa  from  infancy  and  also  of  having 
taught  him  all  he  know  about  the  violin. 

Madame  Foa  followed  him,  and  with  her  was  Miss 
Ingate,  gorgeous  and  blushing.     The  whole  company 


SOIREE  155 

was  now  on  its  feet  and  moving  about.  Miss  Ingate 
scuttercd  to  Audrey. 

"Well,"  she  whispered.  "Here  I  am.  I  came  partly 
to  satisfy  that  hysterical  Elise,  and  ^Monsieur  Dauphin 
met  me  on  the  stairs.  But  really  I  came  because  I've 
had  another  letter  from  Miss  Nickall.  She's  been  and 
got  her  arm  broken  in  a  street  row.  I  knew  those 
policemen  would  do  it  one  day.  I  always  said  they 
would." 

But  Audrey  seemed  not  to  be  listening.  With  a  side- 
long gaze  she  saw  Madame  Piriac  talking  with  a  middle- 
aged  Englishman,  whose  back  alone  was  visible  to  her. 
Madame  Piriac  laughed  and  vanished  out  of  sight  into 
the  dining-room.  The  Englishman  turned  and  met 
Audrey's  glance. 

Abruptly  leaving  Miss  Ingate,  Audrey  walked 
straight  up  to  the  Englishman. 

"Good  evening,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "What  Is 
your  name.?" 

"Gilman,"  he  answered,  with  a  laugh.  "I  only  this 
instant  recognised  you." 

"Well,  Mr.  Gilman,"  said  Audrey,  "will  you  oblige 
me  very  much  by  not  recognising  me?  I  want  us  to  be 
introduced.  I  am  most  particularly  anxious  that  no 
one  should  know  I'm  the  same  girl  that  helped  you  to 
jump  ofF  your  yacht  at  Lousey  Hard  last  year." 

And  she  moved  quickly  away. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


A  DECISION 


The  entire  company  was  sitting  or  standing  round 
the  table  in  the  dining-room.  It  was  a  table  at  which 
eight  might  have  sat  down  to  dinner  with  a  fair  amount 
of  comfort;  and  perhaps  thirty-eight  now  were  suc- 
cessfully claiming  an  interest  in  it.  Not  at  the  end, 
but  about  a  third  of  the  way  down  one  side,  Madame 
Foa  brewed  tea  in  a  copper  receptacle  over  a  spirit 
lamp.  At  the  other  extremity  was  a  battalion  of  glasses, 
some  syphons  and  some  lofty  bottles.  Except  for  a 
border  of  tea-cups  and  glasses  the  rest  of  the  white 
expanse  was  empty,  save  that  two  silver  biscuit  boxes 
and  a  silver  cigarette-box  wandered  up  and  down  it 
according  to  the  needs  of  the  community.  Audrey  was 
sitting  next  to  the  oriental  musical  critic,  "on  her  left, 
and  on  her  right  she  had  a  beautiful  stout  woman  who 
could  speak  nothing  but  Polish,  but  who  expressed  her- 
self very  clearly  in  the  language  of  smiles,  nods,  and 
shrugs  ;  to  Audrey  she  seemed  to  be  extremely  romantic ; 
the  musical  critic  could  converse  somewhat  in  PoHsh, 
and  occasionally  he  talked  across  Audrey  to  the  Pole. 
Several  other  languages  were  flying  about.  The  sub- 
ject of  discussion  was  feminism,  chiefly  as  practised  in 
England.  It  was  Miss  Ingate  who  had  begun  it;  her 
striking  and  peculiar  appearance,  and  in  particular 
lier  frock,  had  given  importance  to  her  lightest  woi'd. 
People  who  comprehended  naught  of  English  listened 
to  her  entranced.      The  host,  who  was   among  these, 

156 


A  DECISION  157 

stood  behind  her  in  a  state  of  ecstasy.  Her  pale  fore- 
head reddened ;  her  sardonic  grin  became  deliciously 
self-conscious.  "I  know  I'm  skidding,"  she  cried.  "I 
know  I'm  skidding." 

"What  does  she  say.''  Skeed — skeed.'"'  demanded  the 
host. 

Audrey  interpreted.     Shouts  of  laughter! 

"Oh !  These  English !  These  Englishwomen !"  said 
the  host.  "I  adore  them.  I  adore  them  all.  They 
alone  exist." 

"It's  vehy  serious !"  protested  Miss  Ingate.  "It's 
vehy   serious !" 

"We  shall  go  to  London  to-morrow,  shan't  we,  Win- 
nie?" said  Audrey  across  the  table  to  her. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Miss  Ingate.  "I  think  we  ought. 
We're  as  free  as  birds.  When  the  police  have  broken 
our  arms  we  can  come  back  to  Paris  to  recover.  I 
shan't  feel  comfortable  until  I've  been  and  had  my  arm 
broken — it's  vehy  serious." 

"What  does  she  say.''  What  is  it  that  she  says.'"' 
from  the  host. 

More  interpretation.  More  laughter,  but  this  time 
an  impressed  laughter.  And  Audrey  perceived  that  just 
as  she  was  regarding  the  Pohsh  woman  as  romantic, 
so  the  whole  company  was  regarding  herself  and  Miss 
Ingate  as  romantic.  She  could  feel  the  polite,  curious 
eyes  of  twenty  men  upon  her;  and  her  mind  seemed  to 
stiffen  into  a  formidable  resolve.  She  grew  conscious 
of  the  lifting  of  all  depression,  all  anxiety.  Her  con- 
science was  at  rest.  She  had  been  thinking  for  more 
than  a  week  past:  "I  ought  to  go  to  London."  How 
often  had  she  not  said  to  herself:  "If  any  woman 
should  be  in  this  movement,  I  should  be  in  this  move- 
ment.    I  am  a  coward  as  long  as  I  stay  here,  dallying 


158  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

my  time  away."  Now  the  decision  was  made,  abso- 
lutely. 

The  oriental  musical  critic  turned  to  glance  upward 
behind  his  chair.  Then  he  vacated  it.  The  next  in- 
stant Madame  Piriac  was  sitting  in  his  place. 

She  said: 

"Are    you    really    going     to    London    to-morrow, 

Madame?" 

"Yes,  Madame,  really!"  answered  Audrey  firmly, 
without  the  least  hesitation. 

"How  I  regret  it!  For  this  reason.  I  wished  so 
much  to  make  your  acquaintance.  I  mean — to  know 
you  a  httle.  You  go  perhaps  in  the  afternoon?  Could 
you  not  do  me  the  great  pleasure  of  coming  to  lunch 
with  me?  I  inhabit  the  Quai  Voltaire.  It  is  all  that 
is  most  convenient." 

Audrey  was  startled  and  suspicious,  but  she  could 
not  deny  the  persuasiveness  of  the  invitation. 

"Ah !  Madame !"  she  said.  "I  know  not  at  what  hour 
we  go.  But  even  if  it  should  be  in  the  afternoon  there 
is  the  packing — you  know — in  a  word  .   .   ." 

"Listen,"  Madame  Piriac  proceeded,  bending  even 
more  intimately  towards  her.  "Be  very,  very  kind. 
Come  to  see  me  to-night.  Come  in  my  car.  I  will  see 
that  you  reach  the  Rue  Delambre  afterwards." 

"But  Madame,  we  are  at  the  Hotel  du  Danube.  I 
have  my  own  car.    You  are  very  amiable." 

Madame  Piriac  was  a  little  taken  aback. 

"So  much  the  better,"  she  said,  in  a  new  tone.  "The 
Hotel  du  Danube  is  nearer  still.  But  come  in  my  car. 
Mademoiselle  Ingate  can  return  in  yours.  Do  not  deso- 
late me." 

"Does  she  know  who  I  am.?"  thought  Audrey,  and 
then:    "What  do  I  care  if  she  does.?" 

And  she  said  aloud: 


A  DECISION  159 

"Madame,  it  is  I  who  would  be  desolated  to  deprive 
myself  of  this  pleasure." 

A  considerable  period  elapsed  before  they  could 
leave,  because  of  the  complex  discussion  concerning 
feminism  which  was  delicately  raging  round  the  edge 
of  the  table.  The  animation  was  acute,  but  it  was 
purely  intellectual.  The  guests  discussed  the  psychol- 
ogy of  English  suffragettes,  sympathetically,  admir- 
ingly; they  were  even  wonderstruck ;  yet  they  might 
have  been  discussing  the  psychology  of  the  ancient 
Babylonians,  so  perfect  was  their  detachment,  so  com- 
pletely unclouded  by  any  prejudice  was  their  desire  to 
reach  the  truth.  Many  of  the  things  which  they  im- 
perturbably  and  politely  said  made  Audrey  feel  glad 
that  she  was  a  widow.  Had  she  not  been  a  widow, 
possibly  they  would  not  have  been  uttered. 

And  when  Madame  Piriac  and  Audrey  did  rise  to 
go,  both  host  and  hostess  began  to  upbraid.  The  host, 
indeed,  barred  the  doorway  with  his  urbane  figure.  They 
were  not  kind,  they  were  not  true  friends,  to  leave  so 
soon.  The  morrow  had  no  sort  of  importance.  The 
hour  was  scarcely  one  o'clock.  Other  guests  were  ex- 
pected .  .  .  Madame  Piriac  alone  knew  how  to  handle 
the  situation;  she  appealed  privately  to  Madame  Foa. 
Having  appealed  to  Madame  Foa,  she  disappeared  with 
Madame  Foa,  and  could  not  be  found  when  Audrey  an^ 
Miss  Ingate  were  ready  to  leave.  While  these  two 
waited  in  the  antechamber.  Monsieur  Foa  said  suddenly 
in  a  confidential  tone  to  Audrey : 

"He  is  charming,  Musa,  quite  charming." 

"Did  you  like  his  playing?"  Audrey  demanded 
boldly. 

She  could  not  understand  why  it  should  be  necessary 
for  a  violinist  to  play  and  to  succeed  at  this  house 
before  he  could  capture  Paris.     She  was  delighted  ex- 


160  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

cessively  with  the  home,  but  positively  it  bore  no 
resemblance  to  what  she  had  anticipated ;  nor  did  it 
seem  to  her  to  possess  any  of  the  attributes  of  influ- 
ence ;  for  one  of  her  basic  ideas  about  the  world  was 
that  influential  people  must  be  dull  and  formal,  mov- 
ing about  with  deliberation  in  sombrely  magnificent 
interiors. 

"Yes,"  said  Monsieur  Foa.  "I  like  it.  He  plays 
admirably."  And  he  spoke  sincerely.  Audrey,  how- 
ever, was  a  little  disappointed  because  Monsieur  Foa 
did  not  assert  that  Musa  was  the  most  marvellous 
genius  he  had  ever  listened  to. 

"I  am  very,  very  content  to  have  heard  him,"  said 
Monsieur  Foa. 

"Do  you  think  he  will  succeed  in  Paris  ?" 

"Ah!  Madame!  There  is  the  press.  There  are  the 
snobs  ...  In  fine  .   .   ." 

"I  suppose  if  he  had  money.?"  Audrey  murmured. 

"Ah!  Madame!  In  Paris,  if  one  has  money,  one 
has  everything.  Paris — it  is  not  London,  where  to  suc- 
ceed one  must  be  truly  successful.  But  he  is  a  player 
very  highly  accomplished.  It  is  miraculous  that  he 
should  have  played  so  long  in  a  cafe — Dauphin  told 
me  the  history." 

Musa  appeared,  and  after  him  Madame  Piriac.  More 
appeals,  more  reproaches,  more  asseverations  that 
friends  who  left  so  early  as  one  o'clock  in  the  morning 
were  not  friends, — and  the  host  at  length  consented 
to  open  the  door.  At  that  very  instant  the  bell  clanged. 
Another  guest  had  arrived. 

When,  after  the  long  descent  of  the  stairs  (which, 
however,  unlike  the  stairs  of  the  Rue  Delambre,  were 
lighted),  Audrey  saw  seven  automobiles  in  the  street, 
she  veered  again  towards  the  possibility  that  the  Foas 
might  after  all  be  influential.     Musa  and  Mr.  Gilman, 


A  DECISION  161 

the  yachtsman,  had  left  with  the  women.  Audrey  told 
Miss  Ingate  to  drive  Musa  home.  She  said  not  a  word 
to  him  about  her  departure  the  next  afternoon,  and 
he  made  no  reference  to  it.  As  the  most  imposing 
automobile  moved  splendidly  away,  Mr.  Gilman  held 
open  the  door  of  Madame  Piriac's  vehicle. 

Mr.  Gilman  sat  down  opposite  to  the  women.  In 
the  enclosed  space  the  rumour  of  his  heavy  breathing 
was  noticeable.  Madame  Piriac  began  to  speak  in 
English — her  own  English — with  a  unique  accent  that 
Audrey  at  once  loved. 

"You  commence  soon  the  yachting,  my  oncle?"  said 
she,  and  turning  to  Audrey :  "Mistair  Gilman  is  no  oncle 
to  me.  But  he  is  a  great  friend  of  my  husband.  I 
call  always  him  oncle.  Do  not  I,  oncle?  Mistair  Gil- 
man lives  only  for  the  yachting.  Every  year  in  May 
we  lose  him,  till  September." 

"Really!"  said  Audrey. 

Her  heart  was  apprehensively  beating.  She  even  sus- 
pected for  an  instant  that  both  of  them  knew  who 
she  was,  and  that  Mr.  Gilman,  before  she  had  addressed 
him  in  the  drawing-room,  had  already  related  to 
Madame  Piriac  the  episode  of  Mozewater.  Then  she 
said  to  herself  that  the  idea  was  absurd;  and  lastly, 
repeating  within  her  breast  that  she  didn't  care,  she 
became  desperately  bold. 

"I  should  love  to  buy  a  yacht,"  she  said,  after  a 
pause.  "We  used  to  live  far  inland  and  I  know  noth- 
ing of  the  sea;  in  fact  I  scarcely  saw  it  till  I  crossed 
the  Channel,  but  I  have  always  dreamed  about  it." 

"You  must  come  and  have  a  look  at  my  new  yacht, 
Mrs.  Moncreiff,"  said  Mr.  Gilman  in  his  solemn,  thick 
voice.  "I  always  say  that  no  yacht  is  herself  without 
ladies  on  board,  a  yacht  being  feminine,  you  see."  He 
gave  a  little  laugh. 


162  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"Ah !  My  oncle !"  Madame  Piriac  broke  in.  "I  see 
in  that  no  reason.  If  a  yacht  was  masculine  then  I 
could  see  the  reason  in  it." 

"Perhaps  not  one  of  my  happiest  efforts,"  said  Mr. 
Oilman  with  resignation.    "I  am  a  dull  man." 

"No,  no !"  Madame  Piriac  protested.  "You  are  a 
dear.  But  why  have  you  said  nothing  to-night  at  the 
Foas  in  the  great  discussion  about  feminism?  Not  one 
word  have  you  said!"  • 

"I  really  don't  understand  it,"  said  Mr.  Gilman. 
"Either  everybody  is  mad,  or  I  am  mad.  I  daresay  I 
am  mad." 

"Well,"  said  Madame  Piriac.  "I  said  not  much  my- 
self, but  I  enjoyed  it.  It  was  better  than  the  music, 
music,  which  they  talk  always  there.  People  talk  too 
much  shops  in  these  days.  It  is  out-to-place  and  done 
over."  N 

"Do  you  mean  overdone.''"  asked  Mr.  Gilman  mildly. 

"Well,  overdone,  if  you  like  better  that." 

"Do  you  mean  shop,  Hortense.'"'  asked  Mr.  Gilman 
further. 

"Shop,  shop!     The  English  is  impossible!" 

The  automobile  crossed  the  Seine  and  arrived  in  the 
deserted  Quai  Voltaire. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


THE   BOUDOIR 


In  the  setting  of  her  own  boudoir  Madame  Piriac 
equalled,  and  in  some  ways  surpassed,  the  finest  pic- 
tures which  Audrey  had  imagined  of  her.  Her  evening 
dress  made  Audrey  doubt  whether  after  all  her  own 
was  the  genuine  triumph  which  she  had  supposed;  in 
Madame  Piriac's  boudoir,  and  close  by  Madame  Piriac, 
it  had  disconcertingly  the  air  of  being  an  ingenious  but 
unconvincing  imitation  of  the  real  thing. 

But  Madame  Piriac's  dress  had  the  advantage  of 
being  worn  with  the  highest  skill  and  assurance; 
Madame  Piriac  knew  what  the  least  fold  of  her  dress 
was  doing,  in  the  way  of  effect,  on  the  floor  behind  her 
back.  And  Madame  Piriac  was  mistress,  not  only  of 
her  dress,  but  of  herself  and  all  her  faculties.  A  hand- 
some woman,  rather  more  than  slim,  but  not  plump, 
she  had  an  expression  of  confidence,  of  knowing  ex- 
actly what  she  was  about,  of  foreseeing  all  her  effects, 
which  Audrey  envied  more  than  she  had  ever  envied 
anything. 

As  soon  as  Audrey  came  into  the  room  she  had  said 
to  herself:  "I  will  have  a  boudoir  like  this."  It  was 
an  interior  in  which  every  piece  of  furniture  was  loaded 
with  objects  personal  to  its  owner.  So  many  signed 
photographs,  so  much  remarkable  bric-a-brac,  so  many 
intimate  contrivances  of  ornamental  comfort,  Audrey 
had  never  before  seen  within  four  walls.  The  chande- 
lier, comprising  ten  thousand  crystals,  sparkled  down 

163 


164.  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

upon  a  complex  aggregate  of  richness  overwhelming  to 
everybody  except  Madame  Piriac,  who  subdued  it, 
understood  it,  and  had  the  key  to  it.  Audrey  wondered 
how  many  servants  took  how  many  hours  to  dust  the 
room.  She  was  sure,  however,  that  whatever  the  num- 
ber of  servants  required,  Madame  Piriac  managed  them 
all  to  perfection.  She  longed  violently  to  be  as  old  as 
Madame  Piriac,  whom  she  assessed  at  twenty-nine  and 
a  half,  and  to  be  French,  and  to  know  all  about  every- 
thing in  life  as  Madame  Piriac  did.  Yet  at  the  same 
time  she  was  extremely  determined  to  be  Audrey,  and 
not  to  be  intimidated  by  Madame  Piriac  or  by  any  one. 

Just  as  they  were  beginning  to  suck  iced  lemonade 
up  straws — a  delightful  caprice  of  Madame  Piriac's, 
well  suited  to  catch  Audrey's  taste — the  door  opened 
softly,  and  a  tall,  very  dark,  bearded  man,  appreciably 
older  than  Madame  Piriac,  entered  with  a  kind  of  soft 
energy,  and  Mr.  Gilman  followed  him. 

"Ah,  my  friend !"  murmured  Madame  Piriac.  "You 
give  me  pleasure.  This  is  Madame  Moncreiff,  of  whom 
I  have  spoken  to  you.  Madame — my  husband.  We 
have  just  come  from  the  Foas'." 

Monsieur  Piriac  bent  over  Audrey's  hand,  and  smiled 
with  vivacity,  and  they  talked  a  little  of  the  evening, 
carelessly,  as  though  time  existed  not.  And  then  Mon- 
sieur Piriac  said  to  his  wife: 

"Dear  friend.  I  have  to  work  with  this  old  Gilman. 
We  shall  therefore  ask  you  to  excuse  us.  Till  to-mor- 
row, then.     Good  night." 

"Good  night,  my  friend.  Do  not  do  harm  to  your- 
self.    Good  night,  my  oncle." 

Monsieur  Piriac  saluted  with  formality  but  with 
sincerity. 

"Oh!"  thought  Audrey,  as  the  men  went  away.  "I 
should  want  to  marry  exactly  him  if  I  did  want  to 


THE  BOUDOIR  165 

marry.  He  doesn't  interfere ;  he  isn't  curious ;  he 
doesn't  want  to  know.  He  leaves  her  alone.  She  leaves 
him  alone.     How  clever  they  are !" 

"My  husband  is  now  chief  of  the  Cabinet  of  the  For- 
eign Minister,"  said  Madame  Piriac  with  modest  pride. 
"They  kill  themselves,  you  know,  in  that  office, — espe- 
cially in  these  times.  But  I  watch.  And  I  tell  Mon- 
sieur Gilman  to  watch  .  .  .  How  nice  you  are  when 
you  sit  in  a  chair  like  that!  Only  Englishwomen  know 
how  to  use  an  easy-chair  .  .  .  To  say  nothing  of  the 
frock." 

"Madame  Piriac,"  Audrey  brusquely  demanded  with 
an  expression  of  ingenuous  curiosity.  "Why  did  you 
bring  me  here.^"  It  was  the  cry  of  an  animal  at  once 
rash  and  rather  desperate,  determined  to  unmask  all 
the  secret  dangers  that  might  be  threatening. 

"I  much  desired  to  see  you,"  Madame  Piriac  an- 
swered very  smoothly,  "in  order  to  apologise  to  you  for 
my  indiscreet  question  on  the  night  when  we  first  met. 
Your  fairy  tale  about  your  late  husband  was  a  very 
proper  reply  to  the  attitude  of  Madame  Rosamund — 
as  you  all  call  her.  It  was  very  clever — so  clever  that 
I  myself  did  not  appreciate  it  until  after  I  had  spoken. 
Ever  since  that  moment  I  have  wanted  to  explain,  to 
know  you  more.  Also  your  pretence  of  going  to  sleep 
in  the  automobile  showed  what  in  a  woman  I  call  dis- 
tinguished talent." 

"But,  Madame,  I  assure  you  that  I  really  was 
asleep." 

"So  much  the  better.  The  fact  proves  that  your 
instinct  for  the  right  thing  is  quite  exceptional.  It  is 
not  that  I  would  criticise  Madame  Rosamund,  who  has 
genius.  Nevertheless  her  genius  causes  her  to  commit 
errors  of  which  others  would  be  incapable.  ...  So  she 
has  captured  you,  too.'* 


166  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"Captured  me !"  Audrey  protested, — and  she  was 
made  stronger  by  the  flattering  reference  to  her  distin- 
guished talent.  "I've  never  seen  her  from  that  day  to 
this !" 

"No.    But  she  has  captured  you.    You  are  going." 

"Going  where?" 

"To  London,  to  take  part  in  these  riots." 

"I  shan't  have  anything  to  do  with  riots." 

"Within  a  month  you  will  have  been  in  a  riot, 
Madame  .  .   .  and  I  shall  regret  it." 

"And  even  if  I  am,  Madame!  You  are  a  friend  of 
Rosamund's.     You  must  be  in  sympathy." 

"In  sympathy  with  what.?" 

"With — with  all  this  sufFragism,  feminism.  /  am 
anyway !"  Audrey  sat  up  straight.  "It's  horrible  that 
women  don't  have  the  vote.  And  it's  horrible  the  things 
they  have  to  suffer  in  order  to  get  it.  But  they  ivill 
get  it !" 

"Why  do  you  say  'they'.?" 

"I  mean  'we.'  " 

"Supposing  you  meant  'they,'  after  all?.  And  you 
did,  Madame.  Let  me  tell  you.  You  ask  me  if  I  sym- 
pathise with  suffragism.  You  might  as  well  ask  me 
if  I  sympathise  with  a  storm  or  with  an  earthquake, 
or  with  a  river  running  to  the  sea.  Perhaps  I  do. 
But  perhaps  I  do  not.  That  has  no  importance. 
Feminism  is  a  natural  phenomenon;  it  was  unavoid- 
able. You  Englishwomen  will  get  your  vote.  Even 
we  in  France  will  get  it  one  day.  It  cannot  be  denied. 
.  .  .  Sympathy  is  not  required.  But  let  us  suppose 
that  all  women  joined  the  struggle.  What  would  hap- 
pen to  women?  What  would  happen  to  the  world? 
Just  as  nunneries  were  a  necessity  of  other  ages,  so 
even  in  this  age  women  must  meditate.  Far  more 
than  men  they  need  to  understand  themselves.     Until 


THE  BOUDOIR  167 

they  understand  themselves  how  can  they  understand 
men?  The  function  of  women  is  to  understand.  Their 
function  is  also  to  preserve.  All  the  beautiful  and 
luxurious  things  in  the  world  are  in  the  custody  of 
women.  Men  would  never  of  themselves  keep  a  tra- 
dition. If  there  is  anything  on  earth  worth  keeping, 
women  must  keep  it.  And  the  tradition  will  be  lost 
if  every  woman  listens  to  Madame  Rosamund.  That 
is  what  she  cannot  see.  Her  genius  blinds  her.  You 
say  I  am  a  friend  of  Madame  Rosamund.  I  am.  Ma- 
dame Rosamund  was  educated  in  Paris,  at  the  same 
school  as  my  aunt  and  myself.  But  I  have  never  helped 
her  in  her  mission.  And  I  never  will.  My  vocation  is 
elsewhere.  When  she  fled  over  here  from  the  English 
police,  she  came  to  me.  I  received  her.  She  asked  me 
to  drive  her  to  certain  addresses.  I  did  so.  She  was 
my  guest.  I  surrounded  her  with  all  that  she  had 
abandoned,  all  that  her  genius  had  forced  her  to  aban- 
don. But  I  never  spoke  to  her  of  her  work,  nor  she 
to  me  of  it.  Still,  I  dare  to  think  that  I  was  of  some 
value  to  the  woman  in  Madame  Rosamund." 

Audrey  felt  very  young  and  awkward  and  defiant. 
She  felt  defiant  because  Madame  Piriac  had  impressed 
her,  and  she  was  determined  not  to  be  impressed. 

"So  you  wanted  to  tell  me  all  this,"  said  she,  put- 
ting down  her  glass,  with  the  straws  in  it,  on  a  small 
round  table  laden  with  tiny  figures  in  silver.  "Why 
did  you  want  to  tell  me,  Madame.?" 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  because  I  want  you  to  do 
nothing  that  you  will  regret.  You  greatly  interested 
me  the  moment  I  saw  you.  And  when  I  saw  you  in 
•that  studio,  in  that  Quarter,  I  feared  for  you." 

"Feared  what.?" 

"I  feared  that  you  might  mistake  your  vocation — 
that  vocation  which  is  so  clearly  written  on  your  face. 


168  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

I  saw  a  woman  young  and  free  and  rich,  and  I  was 
afraid  that  she  might  waste  everything." 

"But  do  you  know  anything  about  me?" 

Madame  Piriac  paused  before  replying. 

"Nothing  but  what  I  see.  But  I  see  that  you  are  in 
a  high  degree  what  all  women  are  to  a  greater  extent 
than  men — an  individualist.  You  know  the  feeling  that 
comes  over  a  woman  in  hours  of  complete  intimacy  with 
a  man.''    You  know  what  I  mean.'"' 

"Oh,  yes !"  Audrey  agreed,  blushing. 

"In  those  moments  we  perceive  that  only  the  indi- 
vidual counts  with  us.  And  with  you,  above  all,  the 
individual  should  count.  Unless  you  use  your  youth 
and  your  freedom  and  your  money  for  some  individual, 
you  will  never  be  content;  you  will  eternally  regret. 
All  that  is  in  your  face." 

Audrey  blushed  more,  thinking  of  certain  plans 
formed  in  that  head  of  hers.  She  said  nothing.  She 
was  both  very  pleased  and  very  exasperated. 

"I  have  a  relative  in  England,  a  young  girl,"  Ma- 
dame Piriac  proceeded,  "in  some  unpronounceable 
county.  We  write  to  each  other.  She  is  excessively 
English." 

Audrey  was  scarlet.  Several  times  during  the  so- 
journ in  Paris  she  had  sent  letters  (to  Madame  Piriac) 
to  be  posted  in  Essex  by  Mr.  Foulger.  These  letters 
were  full  of  quaint  inventions  about  winter  life  in  Essex, 
and  other  matters. 

Madame  Piriac,  looking  reflectively  at  the  red  em- 
bers of  wood  in  the  grate,  went  on : 

"She  says  she  may  come  to  Paris  soon.  I  have  often 
asked  her  to  come,  but  she  has  refused.  Perhaps  next 
month  I  shall  go  to  England  to  fetch  her.  I  should 
like  her  to  know  you — very  much.  She  is  younger  than 
you  are,  but  only  a  little,  I  think." 


THE  BOUDOIR  169 

"I  shall  be  delighted,  if  I  am  here,"  Audrey  stam- 
mered, and  she  rose.  "You  are  a  very  kind  woman. 
Very,  very  amiable.  You  do  not  know  how  much  I 
admire  you.  I  wish  I  was  like  you.  But  I  am  not. 
You  have  seen  only  one  side  of  me.  You  should  see 
the  inside.  It  is  very  strange.  I  must  go  to  London. 
I  am  forced  to  go  to  London.  I  should  be  a  coward 
if  I  did  not  go  to  London.  Tell  me,  is  my  dress  really 
good.'*     Or  is  it  a  deception.'"' 

Madame  Piriac  smiled,  and  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks. 

"It  is  good,"  said  Madame  Piriac.  "But  your  maid 
is  not  all  that  she  ought  to  be.     However,  it  is  good." 

"If  you  had  simply  praised  it,  and  only  that,  I  should 
not  have  been  content,"  said  Audrey,  and  kissed  Ma- 
dame Piriac  in  the  English  way,  the  youthful  and  direct 
way. 

Not  another  word  about  the  male  sex,  the  female 
sex,  tradition  or  individualism,  passed  between  them. 

Mr.  Gilman  was  summoned  to  take  Audrey  across 
the  river  to  the  right  bank.  They  went  in  a  taxi.  He 
was  protective  and  very  silent.  But  just  as  the  cab 
was  turning  out  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  into  the  Rue 
Castiglione  he  said : 

"I  shall  obey  you  absolutely,  Mrs.  MoncreifF.  It 
is  a  great  pleasure  for  an  old,  lonely  man  to  keep  a 
secret  for  a  young  and  charming  woman.  A  greater 
pleasure  than  you  can  possibly  imagine.  You  may 
count  on  me.  I  am  not  a  talker,  but  you  have  put  me 
under  an  obligation,  and  I  am  very  grateful." 

She  took  care  that  her  thanks  should  reward  him. 

"Winnie,"  she  burst  out  in  the  rose-coloured  secrecy 
of  the  bedroom,  "has  Elise  gone  to  bed.^^  .  .  .  All 
right.  Well,  I'm  lost.  Madame  Piriac  is  going  to 
England  to  fetch  me." 


CHAPTER  XX 


PAGET  GARDENS 


"Has  anything  happened  in  this  town?"  asked  Au- 
drey of  Miss  Ingate. 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  day  following  their  ar- 
rival in  London  from  Paris,  and  it  was  a  fine  after- 
noon. They  were  walking  from  the  Charing  Cross 
Hotel,  where  they  had  slept,  to  Paget  Gardens. 

"Anything  happened.?"  repeated  Miss  Ingate.  "What 
do  you  mean.f*  I  don't  see  anything  very  particular  on 
the  posters." 

"Everybody  looks  so  sad  and  worried,  compared  to 
people  in  Paris." 

"So  they  do  !  So  they  do !"  cried  Miss  Ingate.  "Oh, 
yes !  So  they  do !  I  wondered  what  it  was  seemed  so 
queer.  That's  it.  Well,  of  course  you  mustn't  forget 
we're  in  England.  I  always  did  say  it  was  a  very  pe- 
culiar place." 

"Do  we  look  like  that?"  Audrey  suggested. 

"I  expect  we  do." 

"I'm  quite  sure  that  I  don't,  Winnie,  anyway.  I'm 
really  very  cheerful.     I'm  surprisingly  cheerful." 

It  was  true.  Also  she  both  looked  and  felt  more 
girlish  than  ever  in  Paris.  Impossible  to  divine,  watch- 
ing her  in  her  light  clothes,  and  with  her  airy  step,  that 
she  was  the  relict  of  a  man  who  had  so  tragically  died 
of  blood-poisoning  caused  by  bad  table  manners. 

"I'vd  a  good  mind  to  ask  a  policeman,"  said  she. 

"You'd  better  not,"  Miss  Ingate  warned  her. 

170 


PAGET  GARDENS  171 

Audrey  instantly  turned  into  the  roadway,  treating 
the  creosoted  wood  as  though  it  had  been  rose-strewn 
velvet,  and  reached  a  refuge  where  a  policeman  was 
standing.  The  policeman  bent  with  benevolence  and 
politeness  to  listen  to  her  tale. 

"Excuse  me,"  she  said,  smiling  innocently  up  at  him, 
"but  is  anything  the  matter.'"' 

*'What  street,  miss.'*"  he  questioned,  bending  lower. 

"Is  anything  the  matter.?  All  the  people  round  here 
are  so  gloomy." 

The  policeman  glanced  at  her. 

"There  will  be  something  the  matter,"  he  remarked 
calmly.  "There  will  be  something  the  matter  pretty 
soon  if  I  have  much  more  of  that  suffragette  sauce.  I 
thought  you  was  one  of  them  the  moment  I  saw  you, 
but  I  wasn't  sure." 

This  was  the  first  time  Audrey  had  ever  spoken  to 
a  policeman,  save  Inspector  Keeble,  at  Moze,  who  was 
a  friendly  human  being.  And  she  had  a  little  pang  of 
fear.  The  policeman  was  like  a  high  wall  of  blue  cloth, 
with  a  marvellous  imitation  of  a  human  face  at  the  top, 
and  above  the  face  a  cupola. 

"Thank  you,"  she  murmured  reproachfully,  and  has- 
tened back  to  Miss  Ingate,  who  heard  the  tale  with  a 
grinning  awe  that  was,  nevertheless,  sardonic.  They 
pressed  onwards  to  Piccadilly  Circus,  where  the  only 
normal  and  cheerful  living  creatures  were  the  van  horses 
and  the  flowerwomen;  and  up  Regent  Street,  through 
crowds  of  rapt  and  mystical  women  and  romantical 
men  who  had  apparently  wandered  out  of  a  play  by 
Henrik  Ibsen. 

They  then  took  a  motor-bus,  which  was  full  of  the 
same  enigmatic,  far-gazing  heroines  and  heroes.  When 
they  got  off,  the  conductor  pointed  dreamily  in  a  cer- 
tain    direction     and    murmured     the    words,     "Paget 


172  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Square."  Their  desire  was  Paget  Gardens,  and,  after 
finding  Paget  Square,  Paget  Mansions,  Paget  Houses, 
Paget  Street,  Paget  Mews,  and  Upper  Paget  Street, 
they  found  Paget  Gardens.  It  was  a  terrace  of  huge 
and  fashionable  houses  fronting  on  an  immense,  blank 
brick  wall.  The  houses  were  very  lofty;  so  lofty  that 
the  architect,  presumably  afraid  of  hitting  heaven  with 
his  patent  chimney  cowls,  had  sunk  the  lowest  storey 
deep  into  the  earth.  Looking  over  the  high  palisades 
which  protected  the  pavement  from  the  precipice  thus 
made,  one  could  plainly  see  the  lowest  storey  and  all 
that  was  therein. 

"Whoever  can  she  be  staying  with.'*"  exclaimed  Miss 
Ingate.  "It's  a  marchioness  at  least.  There's  no  doubt 
the  very  best  people  are  now  in  the  movement." 

Audrey  went  first  up  massive  steps,  and,  choosing 
with  marked  presence  of  mind  the  right  bell,  rang  it,  ex- 
pecting to  see  either  a  butler  or  a  footman. 

A  young  woman,  however,  answered  the  ring.  She 
wore  a  rather  shabby  serge  frock,  but  no  apron,  and 
she  did  not  resemble  any  kind  of  servant.  Her  ruddy, 
heavy,  and  slightly  resentful  face  fronted  the  visitors 
with  a  steady,  challenging  stare. 

"Does  Miss  Nickall  live  here.?"  asked  Audrey. 

"Ay !  She  does !"  came  the  answer,  with  a  northern 
accent. 

"We've  come  to  see  how  she  is." 

"Happen  ye'd  better  step  inside,  then,"  said  the 
young  woman. 

They  stepped  inside  to  an  enormous  and  obscure 
interior ;  the  guardian  banged  the  door,  and  negligently 
led  them  forward. 

"It  is  a  large  house,"  Miss  Ingate  ventured,  against 
the  silent  intimidation  of  the  place. 

"One  o'  them  rich  uns,"  said  the  guardian.     "She 


PAGET  GARDENS  173 

lends  it  to  the  Cause  when  she  doesn't  want  it  herself, 
to  show  her  sympath3^  Saves  her  a  caretaker — they 
all  know  I'm  one  to  look  right  well  after  a  house." 

Having  passed  two  very  spacious  rooms  and  a  wide 
staircase,  she  opened  the  door  of  a  smaller  but  still 
a  considerable  room. 

"Here  y'are,"  she  muttered. 

This  room,  like  the  others,  was  thoroughly  sheeted, 
and  thus  presented  a  misty  and  spectral  appearance. 
All  the  chairs,  the  chandelier,  and  all  the  pictures,  were 
masked  in  close-fitting  pale  j^ellow.  The  curtains  were 
down,  the  cai'pet  was  up,  and  a  dust  sheet  was  spread 
under  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

"Here's  some  friends  of  yours,"  said  the  guardian, 
throwing  her  words  across  the  room. 

In  an  easy-chair  near  the  fireplace  sat  Miss  Nickall, 
her  arm  in  splints  and  in  a  sling.  She  was  very  thin 
and  very  pallid,  and  her  eyes  brightly  ghttered.  The 
customary  kind  expression  of  her  face  was  modified, 
though  not  impaired,  by  a  look  of  vague  apprehen- 
sion. 

"Mind  how  ye  handle  her,"  the  guardian  gave  warn- 
ing, when  Nick  yielded  herself  to  be  embraced. 

"You're  just  a  bit  of  my  Paris  come  to  see  me," 
said  Nick,  with  her  American  accent.  Then  through 
her  tears :  "How's  Tommy,  and  how's  Musa,  and 
how's — how's  my  studio.''  Oh!  This  is  Miss  Susan 
Foley,  sister  of  Jane  Foley.  Jane  will  be  here  for 
tea.     Susan — Miss  Ingate  and  Mrs.  Moncreiff." 

Susan  gave  a  grim  bob. 

"Is  Jane  Foley  coming.'*  Does  she  live  here?"  asked 
Miss  Ingate,  properly  impressed  by  the  name  of  her 
who  was  the  St.  George  of  Suffragism,  and  perhaps 
the  most  efficient  of  all  militants.  "Audrey,  we  are 
in  luck !" 


174  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

When  Nick  had  gathered  items  of  information  about 
Paris,  she  burst  out: 

"I  can't  beheve  I've  only  met  you  once  before.  You're 
just  like  old  friends." 

"So  we  are  old  friends,"  said  Audrey.  "Your  let- 
ters to  Winnie  have  made  us  old  friends." 

"And  when  did  you  come  over?" 

"Last  night,"  Miss  Ingate  replied.  "We  should  have 
called  this  morning  to  see  you,  but  Mrs.  MoncreifF  had 
so  much  business  to  do  and  people  to  see.  I  don't 
know  what  it  all  was.     She's  very  mysterious." 

As  a  fact,  Audrey  had  had  an  interview  with  Mr. 
Foulger,  who,  with  laudable  obedience,  had  come  up 
to  town  from  Chelmsford  in  response  to  a  telegram. 
Miss  Ingate  was  aware  of  this,  but  she  was  not  aware 
of  other  and  more  recondite  interviews  which  Audrey 
had  accomplished. 

"And  how  did  this  happen.'"'  eagerly  enquired  Miss 
Ingate,  at  last,  pointing  to  the  bandaged  arm. 

Nick's  face  showed  discomfort. 

"Please  don't  let  us  talk  about  that,"  said  Nick.  "It 
was  a  policeman.  I  don't  think  he  meant  it.  I  had 
chained  myself  to  the  railings  of  St.  Margaret's 
Church." 

Susan  Foley  put  in  laconically : 

"She's  not  to  be  worried.  I  hope  ye'U  stay  for  tea. 
We  shall  have  tea  at  five  sharp.     Janey'll  be  in." 

"Can't  they  sleep  here,  Susan.'"'  Nick  whimpered. 

"Of  course  they  can,  and  welcome,"  said  Susan. 
"There's  more  empty  beds  in  this  barracks  than  they 
could  sleep  in  if  they  slept  all  day  and  all  night." 

"But  we're  staying  at  a  hotel.  We  can't  possibly 
put  you  to  aU  this  trouble,"  Audrey  protested. 

"No  trouble.     It's  my  business.     It's  what  I'm  h«re 


PAGET  GARDENS  175 

for,"  said  Susan  Foley.  "I'd  sooner  have  it  than  mill 
work  any  day  o'  the  week." 

"You're  just  going  to  be  very  mean  if  you  don't 
stay  here,"  Nick  faltered.  Tears  stood  in  her  eyes 
aa-ain.  "You  don't  know  how  I  feel."  She  murmured 
something  about  Betty  Burke's  doings. 

"We  will  stay !  We  will  stay !"  Miss  Ingate  agreed 
hastily.  And,  unperceived  by  Nick,  she  gave  Audrey 
a  glance  in  which  irony  and  tenderness  were  mingled. 
It  was  as  if  she  had  whispered:  "The  nerves  of  this 
angel  have  all  gone  to  pieces.  We  must  humour  the 
Little  sentimental  simpleton." 


CHAPTER  XXI 


JANE 


"We've  begun,  ye  see,'*  said  Susan  Foley. 
It  was  two  minutes  past  five,  and  Miss  Ingate  and 
Audrey,  followed  by  Nick  with  her  slung  arm,  entered 
the  sheeted  living-room.  Tremendous  feats  had  been 
performed.  All  the  Moncreiff  and  Ingate  luggage,  less 
than  two  hours  earlier  lying  at  the  Charing  Cross 
Hotel,  was  now  in  two  adjoining  rooms  on  the  third 
floor  of  the  great  house  in  Paget  Gardens.  Drivers 
and  loiterers  had  assisted,  under  the  strict  and  taciturn 
control  of  Susan  Foley.  Also  Nick,  Miss  Ingate,  and 
Audrey  had  had  a  most  intimate  conversation,  and  the 
two  latter  had  changed  their  attire  to  suit  the  station 
of  campers  in  a  palace. 

"It's  lovely  to  be  quite  free  and  independent,"  Au- 
drey had  said,  and  the  statement  had  been  acclaimed. 

Jane  Foley  was  seated  opposite  her  sister  at  the 
small  table  plainly  set  for  five.  She  rose  vivaciously, 
and  came  forward  v/ith  outstretched  hand.  She  wore 
a  blue  skirt  and  a  white  blouse  and  brown  boots.  She 
was  twenty-eight,  but  her  rather  small  proportions  and 
her  plentiful  golden,  fluiFy  hair  made  her  seem  about 
twenty.  Her  face  was  less  homely  than  Susan's,  and 
more  mobile.  She  smiled  somewhat  shyly,  with  an 
extraordinary  radiant  cheerfulness.  It  was  impossible 
for  her  to  conceal  the  fact  that  she  was  very  good- 
natured  and  very  happy.     Finally,  she  limped. 

176 


JANE  177 

"Susan  will  have  the  meals  prompt,"  she  said,  as 
they  all  sat  down.  "And  as  Susan  left  home  on  pur- 
pose to  look  after  me,  of  course  she's  the  mistress.  As 
far  as  that  goes,  she  always  was." 

Susan  was  spreading  jam  on  a  slice  of  bread-and- 
butter  for  the  one-armed  Nick. 

"1  dare  say  you  don't  remember  me  playing  the 
barrel-organ  all  down  Regent  Street  that  day,  do  you.''" 
said  Miss  Ingate. 

"Oh,  yes ;  quite  well.  You  were  magnificent !"  an- 
swered Jane,  with  blue  eyes  sparkling. 

"Well,  though  I  only  just  saw  you — I  was  so  busy — 
I  should  remember  you  anywhere,  Miss  Foley,"  said 
Miss  Ingate. 

"Do  jou  notice  any  difference  in  her.'"'  questioned 
Susan  Foley  harshly. 

"N-o,"  said  Miss  Ingate.  "Except,  perhaps,  she 
looks  even  younger." 

"Didn't  you  notice  she's  lame?" 

"Oh,  well — yes,  I  did.  But  you  didn't  expect  me 
to  mention  that,  did  you?  I  thought  your  sister  had 
just  sprained  her  ankle,  or  something." 

"No,"  said  Susan.  "It's  for  life.  Tell  them  about 
it,  Jenny.     They  don't  know." 

Jane  Foley  laughed  lightly, 

"It  was  all  in  the  day's  work,"  she  said.  "It  was  at 
my  last  visit  to  Holloway." 

Audrey,  gazing  at  her  entranced,  like  a  child,  mur- 
mured with  awe: 

"Have  you  been  to  prison,  then?" 

"Three  times,"  said  Jane  pleasantly.  "And  I  shall 
be  going  again  soon.  I'm  only  out  while  they're  try- 
ing to  think  of  some  new  way  of  dealing  with  me,  poor 
things !  I'm  generally  watched.  It  must  cost  them 
a  fearful  lot  of  money.     But  what  are  they  to  do?" 


178  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"But  how  were  you  lamed?     I  can't  eat  any  tea  if 
you  don't  tell  me — really  I  can't!" 

"Oh,  all  right!"     Jane  laughed.     "It  was  after  that 
Liberal  mass  meeting  in  Peel  Park,  at  Bradford.    I'd 
begun   to    ask    questions,   as    usual,   you   know — ques- 
tions they  can't  answer — and  then  some  Liberal  stew- 
ards, with  lovely   rosettes   in  their  buttonholes,   came 
round  me  and  started  cutting  my  coat  with  their  pen- 
knives.    They  cut  it  all  to  pieces.     You  see  that  was 
the  best  argument  they  could  think  of  in  the  excite- 
ment  of  the   moment.      I   believe   they'd  have  cut   up 
every  stitch  I  had,  only  perhaps  it  began  to  dawn  on 
them  that  it  might  be  awkward  for  them.     Then  two 
of  them  lifted  me  up,  one  by  the  feet  and  the  other 
by  the  shoulders,  and  carried  me  off.     They  wouldn't 
let  me  walk.     I  told  them  they'd  hurt  my  leg,  but  they 
were  too  busy  to  listen.     As  soon  as  they  came  across 
a  policeman  they  said  they  had  done  it  all  to  save  me 
from  being  thrown  into  the  lake  by  a  brutal  and  infu- 
riated mob.     I  just  had  enough  breath  left  to  thank 
them.      Of  course,   the  police  weren't  going  to   stand 
that,  so  I  was  taken  that  night  to  London.     Every- 
thing was  thought  of  except  my  tea.     But  I  expect 
they  forgot  that  on  purpose  so  that  I  should  be  prop- 
erly hungry  when  I  got  to  Holloway.     However,  I  said 
to  myself,  'If  I  can't  eat  and  drink  when  /  want,  I 
won't  eat  and  drink  when  they  want !'    And  I  didn't. 

"After  I'd  paid  my  respects  at  Bow  Street,  and 
was  back  at  Holloway,  I  just  stamped  on  everything 
they  offered  me,  and  wrote  a  petition  to  the  Governor 
asking  to  be  treated  as  a  political  prisoner.  Instead 
of  granting  the  petition  he  kept  sending  me  more  and 
more  beautiful  food,  and  I  kept  stamping  on  it.  Then 
three  magistrates  arrived  and  sat  on  my  case,  and 
sentenced  me  to  the  punishment  cells.     They  ran  off 


JANE  17i 

as  soon  as  they'd  sentenced  me.  I  said  I  wouldn't  go  to 
their  punishment  cells.  I  told  everybody  again  how 
lame  I  was.  So  five  wardresses  carried  me  there,  but 
they  dropped  me  twice  on  the  way.  It  was  a  very 
interesting  cell,  the  punishment  cell  was.  If  it  had 
been  in  the  Tower,  everybody  would  go  to  look  at  it 
because  of  its  quaintness.  There  were  two  pools  of 
water  near  to  the  bed.  I  was  three  days  in  the  cell, 
and  those  pools  of  water  were  always  there;  I  could 
see  them  because  from  where  I  lay  on  the  bed  the  light 
glinted  on  them.  Just  one  gleam  from  the  tiny  cob- 
webby window  high  up.  I  hadn't  anything  to  read,  of 
course,  but  even  if  I'd  had  sometliing  I  couldn't  see 
to  read.  The  bed  was  two  planks,  just  raised  an  inch 
or  two  above  the  water,  and  the  pillow  was  wooden. 
Never  any  trouble  about  making  beds  like  that!  The 
entire  furniture  of  this  cosy  drawing-room  was — you'll 
never  guess — a  tree-stump,  meant  for  a  chair,  I  think. 
And  on  this  tree-stump  was  an  india-rubber  cup.  I 
could  just  see  it  across  the  cell. 

"At  night  the  wardresses  were  struck  with  pity,  or 
perhaps  it  was  the  Governor.  Anyhow,  they  brought 
me  a  mattress  and  a  rug.  They  told  me  to  get  up  off 
the  bed,  and  I  told  them  I  couldn't  get  up,  couldn't 
even  turn  over.  So  they  said,  'Very  well,  then;  you 
can  do  without  these  things,'  and  they  took  them 
away.  The  funny  thing  was  that  I  really  couldn't  get 
up.  If  I  tried  to  move,  my  leg  made  me  want  to 
shriek. 

"After  three  days  they  decided  to  take  me  to  the 
prison  hospital.  I  shrieked  all  the  way — couldn't  help 
it.  They  laughed.  So  then  I  laughed.  In  the  hos- 
pital, the  doctor  decided  that  my  left  ankle  was 
sprained  and  my  right  thigh  broken.  So  I  had  the 
l^st  of  them,  after  all.     They  had  to  admit  they  were 


180  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

wrong.  It  was  most  awkward  for  them.  Then  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  begin  to  eat.  But  they  had 
to  be  very  careful  what  they  gave  me.  I  hadn't  had 
anything  for  nearly  six  days,  you  see.  They  were 
in  a  fearful  stew.  Doctor  was  there  day  and  night. 
And  it  wasn't  his  fault.  I  told  him  he  had  all  my 
sympathies.  He  said  he  was  very  sorry  I  should  be 
lame  for  life,  but  it  couldn't  be  helped,  as  the  thigh 
had  been  left  too  long.  I  said,  'Please  don't  mention 
it.'  " 

"But  did  they  keep  you  after  that?" 

"Keep  me !  They  implored  my  friends  to  take  me 
away.  No  man  was  ever  more  relieved  than  the  poor 
dear  Governor  of  Holloway  Prison,  and  the  Home  Sec- 
retary himself,  too,  when  I  left  in  a  motor-ambulance. 
The  Governor  raised  his  hat  to  two  of  my  friends.  He 
would  have  eaten  out  of  my  hand  if  I'd  had  a  few  more 
days  to  tame  him." 

Audrey's  childlike  and  intense  gaze  had  become  ex- 
tremely noticeable.  Jane  Foley  felt  it  upon  herself, 
and  grew  a  little  self-conscious.  Susan  Foley  noticed 
it  with  eager  and  grim  pride,  and  she  made  a  sharp 
movement  instead  of  sa3ang:  "Yes,  you  do  well  to 
stare.    You've  got  something  worth  staring  at." 

Nick  noticed  it,  with  moisture  in  her  glittering,  hys- 
teric eyes.  Miss  Ingate  noticed  it  ironically.  "You, 
pretending  to  be  a  widow,  and  so  knowing  and  so  supe- 
rior !  Why,  you're  a  schoolgirl !"  said  the  expressive 
curve  of  Miss  Ingate's  shut  lips. 

And,  in  fact,  Audrey  was  now  younger  than  she 
had  ever  been  in  Paris.  She  was  the  girl  of  six  or 
seven  years  earlier,  who,  at  night  at  school,  used  to 
insist  upon  hearing  stories  of  real  people,  either  frqm 
a  sympathetic  teacher  or  from  the  other  member  of 
the  celebrated  secret  society.     But  she  had  never  heard 


JANE  181 

any  tale  to  compare  with  Jane  Foley's.  It  was  incred- 
ible that  this  straightforward,  simple  girl  at  the  table 
should  be  the  world-renowned  Jane  Foley.  What  most 
impressed  Audrey  in  Jane  was  Jane's  happiness.  Jane 
was  happy,  as  Audrey  had  not  imagined  that  any  one 
could  be  happy.  She  had  within  her  a  supply  of  hap- 
piness that  was  constantly  bubbling  up.  The  ridicu- 
lousness and  the  total  futility  of  such  matters  as  mo- 
tor-cars, fine  raiment,  beautiful  boudoirs,  and  correct- 
ness, smote  Audrey  severely.  She  saw  that  there  was 
only  one  thing  worth  having,  and  that  was  the  myste- 
rious thing  that  Jane  Foley  had.  This  mysterious  thing 
rendered  innocuous  cruelty,  stupidity,  and  injustice, 
and  reduced  them  to  rather  pathetic  trifles. 

"But  I  never  saw  all  this  in  the  papers !"  Audrey 
exclaimed. 

"No  paper — I  mean  no  respectable  paper — would 
print  it.  Of  course  we  printed  it  in  our  own  weekly 
paper." 

"Why  wouldn't  any  respectable  paper  print  it.'"' 

"Because  it's  not  nice.  Don't  you  see  that  I  ought 
to  have  been  at  home  mending  stockings  instead  of  gal- 
livanting round  with  Liberal  stewards  and  policemen 
and  prison  governors.'"' 

"And  why  aren't  you  mending  stockings  ?"  asked  Au- 
drey, with  a  delicious  quizzical  smile  that  crept  gradu- 
ally through  the  wonder  and  admiration  in  her  face. 

"You  pal!"  cried  Jane  Foley  impulsively.  "I  must 
hug  you !"  And  she  did.  "I'll  tell  you  why  I'm  not 
mending  stockings,  and  why  Susan  has  had  to  leave  off 
mending  stockings  in  order  to  look  after  me.  Susan 
and  I  worked  in  a  mill  when  she  was  ten  and  I  was 
eleven.  We  were  'tenters.'  We  used  to  get  up  at  four 
or  five  in  the  morning  and  help  with  the  housework,  and 
then  put  on  our  clogs  and  shawls  and  be  at  the  mill 


182  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

at  six.  We  worked  till  twelve,  and  then  in  the  after- 
noon we  went  to  school.  The  next  day  we  went  to 
school  in  the  morning  and  to  the  mill  in  the  afternoon. 
When  we  were  thirteen  we  left  school  altogether,  and 
worked  twelve  hours  a  day  in  the  mill.  In  the  evenings 
we  had  to  do  housework.  In  fact,  all  our  housework 
was  done  before  half  past  five  in  the  morning  and  after 
half  past  six  in  the  evening.  We  had  to  work  just 
as  hard  as  the  men  and  boys  in  the  mill.  We  got  a 
great  deal  less  money  and  a  great  deal  less  decent 
treatment ;  but  to  make  up  we  had  to  slave  in  the  early 
morning  and  late  at  night,  while  the  men  either  snored 
or  smoked.  I  was  all  right.  But  Susan  wasn't.  And  a 
lot  of  women  weren't,  especially  young  mothers  with 
babies.  So  I  learnt  typewriting  on  the  quiet,  and  loft 
it  all  to  try  and  find  out  whether  something  couldn't 
be  done.  I  soon  found  out — after  I'd  heard  Rosamund 
speak.  That's  the  reason  I'm  not  mending  stockings. 
I'm  not  blaming  anybody.  It's  no  one's  fault,  really. 
It  certainly  isn't  men's  fault.  Only  something  has  to 
be  altered,  and  most  people  detest  alterations.  Still, 
they  do  get  done  somehow  in  the  end.  And  so  there 
you  are!" 

"I  should  love  to  help,"   said  Audrey.     "I  expect 
I'm  not  much  good,  but  I  should  love  to." 

She  dared  not  refer  to  her  wealth,  of  which,  in  fact, 
she  was  rather  ashamed, 

"Well,  you  can  help,  all  right,"  said  Jane  Foley, 
rising.     "Are  you  a  member.?" 

"No.     But  I  will  be  to-morrow." 

"They'll  give  you  something  to  do,"  said  Jane  Foley. 

"Oh   yes!"    remarked    Miss    Ingate.      "They'U   keep 
you  busy  enough — amZ  charge  you  for  it." 

Susan  Foley  began  to  clear  the  table. 

"Supper  at  nine,"  said  she  curtly. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


THE    DETECTIVE 


Atjdiiey  and  Miss  Ingate  were  writing  letters  to 
Paris.  Jane  Foley  had  gone  forth  again  to  a  com- 
mittee meeting,  which  was  understood  to  be  closely 
connected  with  a  great  Liberal  demonstration  shortly 
to  be  held  in  a  Midland  fortress  of  Liberalism.  Miss 
Nickall,  in  accordance  with  medical  instructions,  had 
been  put  to  bed.  Susan  Foley  was  in  the  basement, 
either  clearing  up  tea  or  preparing  supper. 

Miss  Ingate,  putting  her  pen  between  her  teeth  and 
looking  up  from  a  blotting-pad,  said  to  Audrey  across 
the  table: 

"Are  you  writing  to  Musa?" 

"Certainly  not !"  said  Audrey,  with  fire.  "Why 
should  I  write  to  Musa.?"  She  added:  "But  you  can 
write  to  him,  if  you  like." 

"Oh!     Can  I.'"'  observed  Miss  Ingate,  grinning. 

Audrey  knew  of  no  reason  why  she  should  blush  be- 
fore Miss  Ingate,  yet  she  began  to  blush.  She  resolved 
not  to  blush ;  she  put  all  her  individual  force  into  the 
enterprise  of  resisting  the  tide  of  blood  to  her  cheeks, 
but  the  tide  absolutely  ignored  her,  as  the  tide  of  ocean 
might  have  ignored  her. 

She  rose  from  the  table,  and,  going  into  a  comer, 
fidgetted  with  the  electric  switches,  turning  certain 
additional  lights  oiF  and  on. 

"All  right,"  said  Miss  Ingate,  "I'll  write  to  him. 
I'm  sure  he'll  expect  something.  Have  you  finished 
your  letters.'"' 


184  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"Yes." 

"Well,  what's  this  one  on  the  table,  then?" 

"I  shan't  go  on  with  that  one." 

"Any  message  for  Musa.'*" 

"You  might  tell  him,"  said  Audrey,  carefully  exam- 
ining the  drawn  curtains  of  the  window,  "that  I  hap- 
pened to  meet  a  French  concert  agent  this  morning  who 
was  very  interested  in  him." 

"Did  you.?"  cried  Miss  Ingate.     "Where.?" 

"It  was  when  I  was  out  with  Mr.  Foulger.  The 
agent  asked  me  whether  I'd  heard  a  man  named  Musa 
play  in  Paris.  Of  course  I  said  I  had.  He  told  me 
he  meant  to  take  him  up  and  arrange  a  tour  for  him. 
So  you  might  tell  Musa  he  ought  to  be  prepared  for 
anything." 

"Wonders  will  never  cease!"  said  Miss  Ingate. 
"Have  I  got  enough  stamps.?" 

"I  don't  see  anything  wonderful  in  it,"  Audrey 
sharply  replied.  "Lots  of  people  in  Paris  know  he's  a 
great  player,  and  those  Jew  concert  agents  are  always 
awfully  keen — at  least  so  I'm  told.  Well,  perhaps, 
after  all,  you'd  better  not  tell  him.  It  might  "make  him 
conceited.  .  .  .  Now,  look  here,  Winnie,  do  hurry  up, 
and  let's  go  out  and  post  those  letters.  I  can't  stand 
this  huge  house.  I  keep  on  imagining  all  the  empty 
rooms  in  it.     Hurry  up  and  come  along." 

Shortly  afterwards  Miss  Ingate  shouted  downstairs 
into  the  earth: 

"Miss  Foley,  we're  both  just  going  out  to  post  some 
letters." 

The  faint  reply  came: 

"Supper  at  nine." 

At  the  further  corner  of  Paget  Square  they  discov- 
ered a  pillar-box  standing  solitary  in  the  chill  night 
among  the  vast  and  threatening  architecture. 


THE  DETECTIVE  185 

"Do  let's  go  to  a  cafe,"  suggested  Audrey. 

"A  cafe?" 

"Yes.  I  want  to  be  jolly.  I  must  break  loose  some- 
where to-night.  I  can't  wait  till  to-morrow.  I  was 
feeling  splendid  till  Jane  Foley  went.  Then  the  house 
began  to  get  on  my  nerves,  not  to  mention  Susan  Foley, 
with  her  supper  at  nine.  Do  all  people  in  London  fix 
their  meals  hours  and  hours  beforehand.''  I  suppose 
they  do.  We  used  to  at  Moze.  But  I'd  forgotten. 
Come  along,  Winnie." 

"But  there  are  no  cafes  in  London." 

"There  must  be  some  cafes  somewhere." 

"Only  public  houses  and  restaurants.  Of  course  we 
could  go  to  a  teashop,  but  they're  all  shut  up  now." 

"Well,  then,  what  do  people  do  in  London  when  they 
want  to  be  jolly?  I  always  thought  London  was  a 
terrific  town." 

"They  never  want  to  be  jolly,"  said  Miss  Ingate. 
"If  they  f^el  as  if  they  couldn't  help  being  jolly,  then 
they  hire  a  private  room  somewhere  and  draw  the 
blinds  down." 

With  no  more  words,  Audrey  seized  Miss  Ingate  by 
the  arm  and  they  walked  off,  out  of  the  Square  and 
into  empty  and  silent  streets  where  highly  disciplined 
gas-lamps  kept  strict  watch  over  the  deportment  of 
colossal  houses.  In  their  rapid  stroll  they  seemed  to 
cover  miles,  but  they  could  not  escape  from  the  laby- 
rinth of  tremendous  and  correct  houses,  which  in 
squares  and  in  terraces  and  in  crescents  displayed  the 
everlasting  characteristics  of  comfort,  propriety,  and 
self-satisfaction.  Now  and  then  a  wayfarer  passed 
them.  Now  and  then  a  taxicab  sped  through  the  ave- 
nues of  darkness  like  a  criminal  pursued  by  the  impal- 
pable. Now  and  then  a  red  light  flickered  in  a  porch 
instead  of  a  white  one.      But  there  was   no   surcease 


186  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

from  the  sinister  spell  until  suddenly  they  emerged 
into  a  long,  wide,  illumined  thoroughfare  of  shut  shops 
that  stretched  to  infinity  on  either  hand.  And  a  ver- 
milion motor-bus  meandered  by,  and  this  motor-bus  was 
so  sad,  so  inexpressibly  wistful,  in  the  solemn  wilder- 
ness of  the  empty  artery,  that  the  two  women  fled 
from  the  strange  scene  and  penetrated  once  more  into 
the  gigantic  and  fearful  maze  from  which  they  had 
for  an  instant  stood  free.  Soon  they  were  quite  lost. 
Till  that  day  and  night  Audrey  had  had  a  notion  that 
Miss  Ingate,  though  bizarre,  did  indeed  know  every 
street  in  London.    The  delusion  was  destroyed. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Miss  Ingate.  "If  we  keep  on 
we're  bound  to  come  to  a  cabstand,  and  then  we  can 
take  a  taxi  and  go  wherever  we  like — Regent  Street, 
Piccadilly,  anywhere.  That's  the  convenience  of  Lon- 
don. As  soon  as  you  come  to  a  cabstand  you're  all 
right." 

And  then,  in  the  distance,  Audrey  saw  a  man  appar- 
ently tampering  with  a  gate  that  led  to  an  area. 

"Why,"  she  said  excitedly,  "that's  the  house  we're 
staying  in!" 

"Of  course  it  isn't!"  said  Miss  Ingate.  "This  isn't 
Paget  Gardens  because  there  are  houses  on  both  sides 
of  it  and  there's  a  big  wall  on  one  side  of  Paget  Gar- 
dens.    I'm  sure  we're  at  least  two  miles  off  our  beds." 

"Well,  then,  how  is  it  Nick's  hairbrushes  are  on 
the  window-sill  there,  where  she  put  them  when  she 
went  to  bed.?  I  can  see  them  quite  plain.  This  is 
the  side  street — what's-its-name.?  There's  the  wall  over 
there  at  the  end.  Don't  you  remember — it's  a  comer 
house.     This  is  the  side  of  it." 

"I  beheve  you're  right,"  admitted  Miss  Ingate. 
"What  can  that  man  be  doing  there.?" 


THE  DETECTIVE  187 

They  plainly  saw  him  open  the  gate  and  disappear 
down  the  area  steps. 

"It's  a  burglar,"  said  Audrey.  "This  part  must  be 
a  regular  paradise  for  burglars." 

"More  likely  a  detective,"  Miss  Ingate  suggested. 

Audrey  was  thrilled. 

"I  do  hope  it  is !"  she  murmured.  "How  heavenly ! 
Miss  Foley  said  she  was  being  watched,  didn't  she?" 

"What  had  we  better  do?"  Miss  Ingate  faltered. 

"Do,  Winnie?"  Audrey  whispered,  tugging  at  her 
arm.  "We  must  run  in  at  the  front  door  and  tell 
Supper-at-nine-o'clock." 

They  kept  cautiously  on  the  far  side  of  the  street 
until  the  end  of  it,  when  they  crossed  over,  nipped  into 
the  dark  porch  of  the  house  and  rang  the  bell. 

Susan  Foley  opened  for  them.  There  was  no  light 
in  the  hall. 

"Oh,  is  there?"  said  Susan  Foley,  very  calmly,  when 
she  heard  the  news.  "I  think  I  know  who  it  is.  I've 
seen  him  hanging  round  my  scullery  door  before.  How 
did  he  climb  over  those  railings?" 

"He  didn't.     He  opened  the  gate." 

"Well,  I  locked  the  gate  myself  this  afternoon.  So 
he's  got  a  key.  I  shall  manage  him  all  right.  We'll 
get  the  fire-extinguishers.  There's  about  a  dozen  of 
'em,  I  should  think,  in  this  house.  They're  rather 
heavy,  but  we  can  do  it." 

Turning  on  the  light  in  the  hall,  she  immediately 
lifted  from  its  hook  a  red-coloured  metal  cone  about 
twenty  inches  long  and  eight  inches  in  diameter  at  the 
base.  "In  case  of  fire  drive  in  knob  by  hard  blow 
against  floor,  and  let  liquid  play  on  flames,"  she  read 
the  instructions  on  the  side.  "I  know  them  things," 
she  said.  "It  spurts  out  like  a  fountain,  and  it's  a 
rather  nasty  chemistry  sort  of  a  fluid.    I  shall  take  one 


188  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

downstairs  to  the  scullery,  and  the  others  we'll  have 
upstairs  in  the  room  over  Miss  Nickall's.  We  can  put 
'em  in  the  housemaid's  lift.  ...  I  shall  open  the  scul- 
lery door  and  leave  it  a  bit  open  like,  and  when  he 
comes  in  I'll  be  ready  for  him  behind  the  door  with 
this.  If  he  thinks  he  can  come  spying  after  our  Janey 
like  this " 

"But "  Miss  Ingate  began. 

"You  aren't  feeling  very  well,  are  ye,  Miss?"  Susan 
Foley  demanded,  as  she  put  two  extinguishers  into  the 
housemaid's  lift.  "Better  go  and  sit  down  in  the  par- 
lour. You  won't  be  wanted.  Mrs.  Moncreiff  and  me 
can  manage." 

"Yes,  we  can !"  agreed  Audrey  enthusiastically. 
"Run  along,  Winnie." 

After  about  two  minutes  of  hard  labour  Susan  ran 
away  and  brought  a  key  to  Audrey. 

*'You  sneak  out,"  she  said,  "and  lock  the  gate  on 
him.  I  lay  he'll  want  a  new  suit  of  clothes  when  I 
done  with  him !" 

Ecstatically,  joyfully,  Audrey  took  the  key  and  de- 
parted. Miss  Ingate  was  sitting  in  the  hall,  staring 
about  her  like  an  undecided  bird.  Audrey  crept  round 
into  the  side  street.  Nobody  was  in  sight.  She  could 
not  see  over  the  raihngs,  but  she  could  see  between 
them  into  the  abyss  of  the  area.  The  man  was  there. 
She  could  distinguish  his  dark  form  against  the  inner 
wall.  With  every  conspiratorial  precaution,  she  pulled 
the  gate  to,  inserted  the  key,  and  locked  it. 

A  light  went  up  in  the  scullery  window,  of  which  the 
blind  was  drawn.  The  man  peeped  at  the  sides  of  the 
blind.  Then  the  scullery  door  was  opened.  The  man 
started.  A  piece  of  wood  was  thrown  out  onto  the 
floor  of  the  area,  and  the  door  swung  outwards.  Then 
the  light  in  the  scullery  was  extinguished.     The  man 


THE  DETECTIVE  189 

waited  a  few  moments.  He  had  noticed  that  the  door 
was  not  quite  closed,  and  the  interstice  irresistibly 
fascinated  him.  He  approached  and  put  his  hand 
against  the  door.  It  yielded.  He  entered.  The  next 
instant  there  was  a  bang  and  a  cry,  and  a  strong  spray 
of  white  liquid  appeared,  in  the  middle  of  which  was 
the  man's  head.  The  door  slammed  and  a  bolt  was 
shot.  The  man,  spluttering,  coughing,  and  swearing, 
rubbed  his  eyes  and  wiped  water  from  his  face  with 
his  hands.  His  hat  was  on  the  ground.  At  first  he 
could  not  see  at  all,  but  presently  he  felt  his  way  to- 
wards the  steps  and  began  to  climb  them.  Audrey 
ran  off  towards  the  corner.  She  could  see  and  hear 
him  shaking  the  gate  and  then  trying  to  get  a  key 
into  it.  But  as  Audrey  had  left  her  key  in  the  other 
side  of  the  lock,  he  failed  in  the  attempt. 

The  next  thing  was  that  a  window  opened  in  the 
high  wall-face  of  the  house  and  an  immense  stream 
of  liquid  descended  full  on  the  man's  head.  Susan 
Foley  was  at  the  window,  but  only  the  nozzle  of  the 
extinguisher  could  be  seen.  The  man  tried  to  climb 
over  the  railings ;  he  did  not  succeed ;  they  had  been 
especially  designed  to  prevent  such  feats.  He  ran 
down  the  steps.  The  shower  faithfully  followed  him. 
In  no  corner  of  his  hiding  did  the  bountiful  spray 
neglect  him.  As  soon  as  one  supply  of  liquid  slackened 
another  commenced.  Sometimes  there  were  two  at 
once.  The  man  ran  up  the  steps  again  and  made  an- 
other effort  to  reach  the  safety  of  the  street.  Audrey 
could  restrain  herself  no  more.  She  came,  palpitating 
with  joyous  vitality,  towards  the  area  gate  with  the 
innocent  mien  of  a  passerby. 

"Whatever  is  the  matter?"  she  exclaimed,  stopping 
as  if  thunderstruck.     But  in  the  gloom  her  eyes  were 


190  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

dancing  fires.     She  was  elated  as  she  had  never  been. 

The  man  only  coughed. 

"You  oughtn't  to  take  shower-baths  like  this  in  the 
street,"  she  said,  veiling  the  laughter  in  her  voice.  "It's 
not  allowed.  But  I  suppose  you're  doing  it  for  a  bet 
or  something." 

The  downpour  ceased. 

"Here,  miss,"  said  he,  between  coughs,  "unlock  this 
gate  for  me.     Here's  the  key." 

"I  shall  do  no  such  thing,"  Audrey  replied.  "I  be- 
lieve you're  a  burglar.     I  shall  fetch  a  policeman." 

And  she  turned  back. 

In  the  house.  Miss  Ingate  was  coming  slowly  down 
the  stairs,  a  fire-extinguisher  in  her  arms,  like  a  red 
baby.  She  had  a  sardonic  smile,  but  there  was  diffi- 
dence in  it,  which  showed,  perhaps,  that  it  was  directed 
within. 

"I've  saved  one,"  she  said,  pointing  to  an  extin- 
guisher, "in  case  there  should  be  a  fire  in  the  night." 

A  little  later  Susan  Foley  appeared  at  the  door  of 
the  living-room. 

"Nine  o'clock,"  she  announced  calmly.  "Supper's 
ready.     We  shan't  wait  for  Jane." 

When  Jane  Foley  arrived,  a  reconnaisance  proved 
that  the  martyrised  detective  had  contrived  to  get 
away. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


THE    BLUE    CITY 


In  the  following  month,  on  a  Saturday  afternoon, 
Audrey,  Miss  Ingate,  and  Jane  Foley  were  seated  at  an 
open-air  cafe  in  the  Blue  City. 

The  Blue  City,  now  no  more,  was,  as  may  be  remem- 
bered, Birmingham's  reply  to  the  White  City  of  Lon- 
don, and  the  imitative  White  City  of  Manchester.  Bir- 
mingham, in  that  year,  was  not  imitative,  and,  with 
its  chemical  knowledge,  it  had  discovered  that  certain 
shades  of  blue  would  resist  the  effects  of  smoke  far 
more  successfully  than  any  shade  of  white.  And  ex- 
perience even  showed  that  these  shades  of  blue  were 
improved,  made  more  delicate  and  romantic  by  smoke. 
The  total  impression  of  the  show — which  it  need  hardly 
be  said  was  situated  in  the  polite  Edgbaston  district — 
was  ethereal,  especially  when  its  minarets  and  towers, 
all  in  accordance  with  the  taste  of  the  period,  were 
beheld  from  a  distance.  Nor  was  the  exhibition  en- 
tirely devoted  to  pleasure.  It  had  a  moral  object,  and 
that  object  was  to  demonstrate  the  progress  of  civili- 
sation in  our  islands.  Its  official  title,  indeed,  was  "The 
National  Progress  Exhibition,"  but  the  citizens  of  Bir- 
mingham and  the  vicinity  never  called  it  anything  but 
the  Blue  City. 

On  that  Saturday  afternoon  a  Cabinet  Minister  his- 
torically hostile  to  the  idols  of  Birmingham  was  about 
to  address  a  mass  meeting  in  the  Imperial  Hall  of  the 
Exhibition,  which  held  seven  thousand  people,  in  order 

191 


m  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

to  prove  to  Birmingham  that  the  Government  of  which 
he  was  a  member  had  done  far  more  for  national  prog- 
ress than  any  other  government  had  done  for  national 
progress  in  the  same  length  of  time.  The  presence  of 
the  Cabinet  Minister  accounted  for  the  presence  of 
Jane  Foley;  the  presence  of  Jane  Foley  accounted  for 
the  presence  of  Audrey,  and  the  presence  of  Audrey 
accounted  for  the  presence  of  Miss  Ingate. 

Although  she  was  one  of  the  chief  organisers  of 
victory,  and  perhaps — next  to  Rosamund  and  the  fam- 
ily trio  whose  Christian  names  were  three  sweet  sym- 
phonies— the  principal  asset  of  the  Suffragette  Union, 
Jane  Foley  had  not  taken  an  active  part  in  the  Union's 
arrangements  for  suitably  welcoming  the  Cabinet  Min- 
ister; partly  because  of  her  lameness,  partly  because 
she  was  writing  a  book,  and  partly  for  secret  reasons 
which  it  would  be  unfair  to  divulge.  Nearly  at  the 
last  moment,  however,  in  consequence  of  news  that  all 
was  not  well  in  the  Midlands,  she  had  been  sent  to 
Birmingham,  and,  after  evading  the  watch  of  the  po- 
lice, she  had  arrived  on  the  previous  day  in  Audrey's 
motor-car,  which  at  that  moment  was  waiting  in  the 
automobile  park  outside  the  principal  gates  of  the  Blue 
City. 

The  motor-car  had  been  chosen  as  a  means  of  transit 
for  the  reason  that  the  railway  stations  were  being 
watched  for  notorious  suffragettes  by  members  of  a 
police  force  whose  reputations  were  at  stake.  Audrey 
owed  her  possession  of  a  motor-car  to  the  fact  that 
the  Union  officials  had  seemed  both  startled  and  grieved 
when,  in  response  to  questions,  she  admitted  that  she 
had  no  car.  It  was  communicated  to  her  that  mem- 
bers of  the  Union  as  rich  as  she  reputedly  was  were 
expected  to  own  cars  for  the  general  good.  Audrey 
thereupon  took  measures  to  own  a  car.     Having  seen 


THE  BLUE  CITY  193 

in  many  newspapers  an  advertisement  in  which  a  firm 
of  middlemen  implored  the  public  thus :  "Let  us  run 
your  car  for  you.  Let  us  take  all  the  worry  and  re- 
sponsibility," she  interviewed  the  firm,  and  by  writing 
out  a  cheque  disembarrassed  herself  at  a  stroke  of 
every  anxiety  incident  to  defective  magnetos,  bad  pe- 
trol, bad  inibber,  punctures,  driving  licenses,  bursts, 
collisions,  damages,  and  human  chauffeurs.  She  had 
all  the  satisfaction  of  owning  a  car  without  any  of 
the  cares.  One  of  the  evidences  of  progress  in  the 
Blue  City  was  an  exhibit  of  this  very  firm  of  middlemen. 

From  the  tripod  pale  blue  table  at  which  sat  the 
three  women  could  be  plainly  seen  the  vast  Imperial 
Hall,  flanked  on  one  side  by  the  great  American  Dragon 
Slide,  a  side-show  loudly  demonstrating  progress,  and 
on  the  other  by  the  unique  Joy-Wheel  side-show.  At 
the  doorway  of  the  latter  a  man  was  bawling  proofs 
of  progress  through  a  megaphone. 

Immense  crowds  had  been  gathering  in  the  Imperial 
Hall,  and  the  lines  of  political  enthusiasts  bound  thither 
were  now  thinning.  The  Blue  City  was  full  of  rumours, 
as  that  the  Cabinet  Minister  was  too  afraid  to  come, 
as  that  he  had  been  smuggled  to  the  Hall  inside  a  tea- 
chest,  and  as  that  he  had  walked  openly  and  unchal- 
lenged through  the  whole  Exhibition.  It  was  no  ru- 
mour, but  a  sure  fact,  that  two  women  had  been  caught 
hiding  on  the  roof  of  the  Imperial  Hall,  under  natural 
shelters  formed  by  the  beams  and  boarding  supporting 
the  pediment  of  the  eastern  fa9ade,  and  that  they  were 
ammunitioned  with  flags  and  leaflets  and  a  silk  ladder, 
and  had  made  a  hole  in  the  roof  exactly  over  the  plat- 
form. These  two  women  had  been  seen  in  charge  of 
policemen  at  the  Exhibition  police-station.  It  was  un- 
derstood by  many  that  they  were  the  last  hope  of  mili- 


194  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

tancy  that  afternoon ;  many  others,  on  the  contrary, 
were  convinced  that  they  had  been  simply  a  feint. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Ingate  suddenly,  glancing  up  at 
the  Imperial  clock,  "I  think  I  shall  move  outside  and 
sit  in  the  car.  I  think  that'll  be  the  best  place  for  me. 
I  said  that  night  in  Paris  that  I'd  get  my  arm  broken, 
but  I've  changed  my  mind  about  that."     She  rose. 

"Winnie,"  protested  Audrey,  "aren't  you  going  to 
see  it  out?" 

"No,"  said  Miss  Ingate. 

*'Are  you  afraid?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I'm  afraid.  I  played  the  barrel- 
organ  all  the  way  down  Regent  Street,  and  it  was 
smashed  to  pieces.  But  I  don't  want  to  go  to  prison. 
Really,  I  don't  want  to.  If  me  going  to  prison  would 
bring  the  Vote  a  single  year  nearer,  I  should  say — 
'Let  it  wait  a  year.'  If  me  not  going  to  prison  meant 
no  Vote  for  ever  and  ever,  I  should  say,  'Well,  struggle 
on  without  the  Vote.'  I've  no  objection  to  other  people 
going  to  prison,  if  it  suits  them,  but  it  wouldn't  suit 
me.  I  know  it  wouldn't.  So  I  shall  go  outside  and 
sit  in  the  car.  If  you  don't  come,  I  shall  know  what's 
happened,  and  you  needn't  worry  about  me." 

The  dame  duly  departed,  her  lips  and  eyes  equally 
ironic  about  her  own  prudence  and  about  the  rashness 
of  others. 

"Let's  have  some  more  lemonade — shall  we?"  said 
Jane  Foley. 

"Oh,  let's!"  agreed  Audrey,  with  rapture.  "And 
more  sponge-cake,  too !    You  do  look  lovely  like  that !" 

"Do  I.?" 

Jane  Foley  had  her  profuse  hair  tightly  bound  round 
her  head  and  powdered  grey.  It  was  very  advisable 
for  her  to  be  disguised,  and  her  bright  hair  was  usually 
the  chief  symptom  of  her  in  those  disturbances  which 


THE  BLUE  CITY  195 

so  harassed  the  police.  She  now  had  the  appearance 
of  a  neat  old  lady  kept  miraculously  young  by  a  pure 
and  cheerful  nature.  Audrey,  with  a  plain  blue  frock 
and  hat  which  had  cost  more  than  Jane  Foley  would 
spend  on  clothes  in  twelve  months,  had  a  face  dazzling 
by  its  ingenuous  excitement  and  expectation.  Her  lit- 
tle nose  was  extraordinarily  pert;  her  forehead  superb; 
and  all  her  gestures  had  the  same  vivacious  charm  as 
was  in  her  eyes.  The  white-aproned,  streamered  girl 
who  took  the  order  for  lemonade  and  sponge-cakes  to  a 
covered  bar  ornamented  by  advertisements  of  whisky, 
determined  to  adopt  a  composite  of  the  styles  of  both 
the  customers  on  her  next  ceremonious  Sunday.  And 
a  large  proportion  of  the  other  sippers  and  nibblers 
and  of  the  endless  promenading  crowds  regarded  the 
pair  with  pleasure  and  curiosity,  never  suspecting  that 
one  of  them  was  the  most  dangerous  woman  in  Eng- 
land. 

The  new  refreshments,  which  had  been  delayed  by 
reason  of  an  altercation  between  the  waitress  and  three 
extreme  youths  at  a  neighbouring  table,  at  last  an'ived, 
and  were  plopped  smartly  down  between  Audrey  and 
Miss  Foley.  Having  received  half  a  sovereign  from 
Audrey,  the  girl  returned  to  the  bar  for  change.  "None 
o'  your  sauce!"  she  threw  out,  as  she  passed  the  youths, 
who  had  apparently  discovered  new  arguments  in  sup- 
port of  their  case.  Audrey  was  fired  by  the  vigorous 
independence  of  the  girl  against  three  males. 

"I  don't  care  if  we  are  caught !"  she  murmured  low, 
looking  for  the  future  through  the  pellucid  tumbler. 
She  added,  however:  "But  if  we  are,  I  shall  pay  my 
own  fine.     You  know  I  promised  that  to  Miss  Ingate." 

"That's  all  right,  so  long  as  you  don't  pay  mine, 
my  dear,"  said  Jane  Foley  with  an  affectionate  smile. 

"Jenny !"  Audrey  protested,  full  of  heroine-worship. 


196  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"How  could  you  think  I  would  ever  do  such  a  mean 
thing!" 

There  came  a  dull  vague  voluminous  sound  from  the 
direction  of  the  Imperial  Hall.  It  lasted  for  quite  a 
number  of  seconds. 

"He's  beginning,"  said  Jane  Foley.  "I  do  feel  sorry 
for  him." 

"Are  we  to  start  now?"  Audrey  asked  deferentially. 

"Oh,  no!"  Jane  laughed.  "The  great  thing  is  to 
let  them  think  everything's  all  right.  And  then,  when 
they're  getting  careless,  let  go  at  them  full  bang  with 
a  beautiful  surprise.  There'll  be  a  chance  of  getting 
away  like  that.  I  believe  there  are  a  hundred  and  fifty 
stewards  in  the  meeting,  and  they'll  every  one  be  quite 
useless." 

At  intervals  a  muffled  roar  issued  from  the  Imperial 
Hall,  despite  the  fact  that  the  windows  were  closely 
shut. 

In  due  time  Jane  Foley  quietly  rose  from  the  table, 
and  Audrey  did  likewise.  All  around  them  stretched 
the  imposing  blue  architecture  of  the  Exhibition,  form- 
ing vistas  that  ended  dimly  either  in  the  smoke  of 
Birmingham  or  the  rustic  haze  of  Worcestershire. 
And,  although  the  Imperial  Hall  was  crammed,  every 
vista  was  thickly  powdered  with  pleasure-seekers  and 
probably  pleasure-finders.  Bands  played.  Flags  waved 
Brass  glinted.  Even  the  sun  feebly  shone  at  intervals 
through  the  eternal  canopy  of  soot.  It  was  a  great 
day  in  the  annals  of  the  Blue  City  and  of  Liberalism. 

And  Jane  Foley  and  Audrey  turned  their  backs  upon 
all  that,  and — Jane  concealing  her  limp  as  much  as 
possible — sauntered  with  affected  nonchalance  towards 
the  precincts  of  the  Joy-Wheel  enclosure.  Audrey 
was  inexpressibly  uplifted.  She  felt  as  if  she  had 
stepped  straight  into  romance.     And  she  was  right — 


THE  BLUE  CITY  197 

she  had  stepped  into  the  most  vivid  romance  of  the 
modem  age,  into  a  world  of  disguises,  flights,  pursuits, 
chicane,  inconceivable  adventures,  ideals,  martyrs  and 
conquerors,  which  only  the  Renaissance  or  the  twenty- 
first  century  could  appreciate. 

"Lend  me  that,  will  you?"  said  Jane  persuasively 
to  the  man  with  the  megaphone  at  the  entrance  to  the 
enclosure. 

He  was,  quite  properly,  a  very  loud  man,  with  a  loud 
thick  voice,  a  loud  purple  face,  and  a  loud  grey  suit. 
To  Audrey's  astonishment,  he  smiled  and  winked,  and 
gave  up  the  megaphone  at  once. 

Audrey  paid  sixpence  at  the  turnstile,  admittance 
for  two  persons,  and  they  were  within  the  temple,  which 
had  a  roof  like  an  umbrella  over  the  central,  revolving 
portion  of  it,  but  which  was  somewhat  open  to  the 
skies  around  the  rim.  There  were  two  concentric  en- 
closing walls,  the  inner  one  was  unscalable,  and  the 
outer  one  about  five  feet  six  inches  high.  A  second 
loud  man  was  calling  out:  "Couples  please.  Ladies 
and  gentlemen.  Couples  if  you  please."  Obediently, 
numbers  of  the  crowd  disposed  themselves  in  pairs  in 
the  attitudes  of  close  affection  on  the  circling  floor 
which  had  just  come  to  rest,  while  the  remainder  of 
the  numerous  gathering  gazed  upon  them  with  sar- 
castic ecstasy.  Then  the  wheel  began  slowly  to  turn, 
and  girls  to  shriek  in  the  plentitude  of  happiness.  And 
progress  was  proved  geometrically. 

Jane,  bearing  the  megaphone,  slipped  by  an  aper- 
ture into  the  space  between  the  two  walls,  and  Audrey 
followed.  Nobody  gave  attention  to  them  except  the 
second  loud  man,  who  winked  the  wink  of  knowledge. 
The  fact  was  that  both  the  loud  men,  being  unalter- 
able Tories,  had  been  very  wilhng  to  connive  at  Jane 
Foley's  scheme  for  the  affliction  of  a  Radical  minister. 


198  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

The  two  girls  over  the  wall  had  an  excellent  and 
appetising  view  of  the  upper  part  of  the  side  of  the 
Imperial  Hall,  and  of  its  high  windows,  the  nearest 
of  which  was  scarcely  thirty  feet  away. 

"Hold  this,  will  you?"  said  Jane,  handing  the  mega- 
phone to  Audrey. 

Jane  drew  from  its  concealment  in  her  dress  a  small 
piece  of  iron  to  which  was  attached  a  coloured  streamer 
bearing  certain  words.  She  threw,  with  a  strong  move- 
ment of  the  left  arm,  because  she  was  left-handed.  She 
had  practised  throwing;  throwing  was  one  of  her  sev- 
eral specialties.  The  bit  of  iron,  trailing  its  motto  like 
a  comet  its  tail,  flew  across  space  and  plumped  into 
the  window  with  a  pleasing  crash  and  disappeared, 
having  triumphed  over  uncounted  police  on  the  out- 
skirts and  a  hundred  and  fifty  stewards  within.  A 
roar  from  the  interior  of  the  hall  supervened,  and 
varied  cries. 

"Give  me  the  meg,"  said  Jane  gently. 

The  next  instant  she  was  shouting  through  the  mega- 
phone, an  instrument  which  she  had  seriously  studied: 

"Votes  for  women.  Why  do  you  torture  women.'* 
Votes  for  women.     Why  do  you  torture  women?" 

The  uproar  increased  and  subsided.  A  masterful 
voice  resounded  within  the  interior.  Many  people 
rushed  out  of  the  hall.  And  there  was  a  great  scurry 
of  important  and  puzzled  feet  within  a  radius  of  a 
score  of  yards. 

"I  think  I'll  try  the  next  window,"  said  Jane,  hand- 
ing over  the  megaphone.     "You  shout  while  I  throw." 

Audrey's  heart  was  violently  beating.  She  took  the 
megaphone  and  put  it  to  her  lips,  but  no  sound  would 
come.  Then,  as  though  it  were  breaking  through  an 
obstacle,  the  sound  shot  forth,  and  to  Audrey  it  was  a 
gigantic  voice  that  functioned  quite  independently  of 


THE  BLUE  CITY  199 

her  will.  Tremendously  excited  by  the  noise,  she  bawled 
louder  and  still  louder. 

"I've  missed,"  said  Jane  calmly  in  her  ear.  "That's 
enough,  I  think.     Come  along." 

"But  they  can't  possibly  see  us,"  said  Audrey, 
breathless,  lowering  the  instrument. 

"Come  along,  dear,"  Jane  Foley  insisted. 

People  with  open  mouths  were  crowding  at  the  aper- 
ture of  the  inner  wall,  but,  Jane  going  first,  both  girls 
pushed  safely  through  the  throng.  The  wheel  had 
stopped.  The  entire  congregation  was  staring  agog, 
and  in  two  seconds  everybody  divined,  or  had  been 
nudged  to  the  effect,  that  Jane  and  Audrey  were  the 
authoresses  of  the  pother. 

Jane  still  leading,  they  made  for  the  exit.  But  the 
first  loud  man  rushed  chivalrously  in. 

"Perlice!"  he  cried.     "Two  bobbies  a'coming." 

"Here!"  said  the  second  loud  man.  "Here,  misses. 
Get  on  the  wheel.  They'll  never  get  ye  if  ye  sit  in 
the  middle  back  to  back.  He  jumped  on  to  the  wheel 
himself,  and  indicated  the  mathematical  centre.  Jane 
took  the  suggestion  in  a  flash ;  Audrey  was  obedient. 
They  fixed  themselves  under  directions,  dropping  the 
megaphone.  The  wheel  started,  and  the  megaphone 
rattled  across  its  smooth  surface  till  it  was  shot  off. 
A  policeman  ran  in,  and  hesitated;  another  man,  in 
plain  clothes,  and  wearing  a  rosette,  ran  in. 

"That's  them,"  said  the  rosette.  "I  saw  her  with 
the  grey  hair  from  the  gallery." 

The  policeman  sprang  on  to  the  wheel,  and  after 
terrific  effiorts  fell  sprawling  and  was  thrown  off.  The 
rosette  met  the  same  destiny.  A  second  policeman  ap- 
peared, and  with  the  fearless  courage  of  his  cloth,  un- 
deterred by  the  spectacle  of  prostrate  forms,  made  a 
magnificent  dash,  and  was  equally  floored. 


200  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

As  Audrey  sat  very  upright  pressing  her  back 
against  the  back  of  Jane  Foley  and  clutching  at  Jane 
Foley's  skirts  with  her  hands  behind  her — the  locked 
pair  were  obliged  thus  to  hold  themselves  exactly  over 
the  axis  of  the  wheel,  for  the  slightest  change  of  posi- 
tion would  have  resulted  in  their  being  flung  to  the 
circumference  and  into  the  blue  grip  of  the  law — she 
had  visions  of  all  her  life  just  as  though  she  had  been 
drowning.  She  admitted  all  her  follies  and  wondered 
what  madness  could  have  prompted  her  remarkable 
escapades  both  in  Paris  and  out  of  it.  She  remem- 
bered Madame  Piriac's  prophecy.  She  was  ready  to 
wish  the  past  year  annihilated  and  herself  back  once 
more  in  parental  captivity  at  Moze,  the  slave  of  an 
unalterable  routine  imposed  by  her  father,  without 
responsibility,  without  initiative  and  without  joy.  And 
she  lived  again  through  the  scenes  in  which  she  had 
smiled  at  the  customs-official,  fibbed  to  Rosamund, 
taken  the  wounded  Musa  home  in  the  taxi,  spoken 
privily  with  the  ageing  yachtowner,  and  laughed  at 
the  drowned  detective  in  the  area  of  the  palace  in 
Paget  Gardens. 

Everything  happened  in  her  mind  while  the  wheel 
went  round  once,  showing  her  in  turn  to  the  various 
portions  of  the  audience,  and  bringing  her  at  length 
to  a  second  view  of  the  sprawling  policemen.  Where- 
upon she  thought  queerly:  "What  do  I  care  about 
the  vote,  really .?"  And  finally  she  thought  with  anger 
and  resentment:  "What  a  shame  it  is  that  women 
haven't  got  the  vote !"  And  then  she  heard  a  gay  quiet 
sound.     It  was  Jane  Foley  laughing  gently  behind  her. 

"Can  you  see  the  big  one  now,  darling.?"  asked  Jane 
roguishly.     "Has  he  picked  himself  up  again?" 

Audrey  laughed. 

And  at  last  the  audience  laughed  also.     It  laughed 


THE  BLUE  CITY  SOI 

because  the  big  policeman,  unconquerable,  had   made 
another  intrepid  dash  for  the  centre  of  the  wheel  and 
fallen  upon  his  stomach  as  upon  a  huge  india-rubber 
ball.     The  audience  did  more  than  laugh — it  shrieked, 
yelled,   and   guffawed.      The   performance    to   be   wit- 
nessed was  worth  ten  times  the  price  of  entry.     Indeed 
no  such  performance  had  ever  before  been  seen  in  the 
whole  history  of  popular  amusement.     And  in  describ- 
ing the  affair  the  next  morning  as  "unique"  The  Bir- 
mingham Daily  Post  for  once  used  that  adjective  with 
absolute  correctness.     The  policemen  tried  again  and 
yet  again.     They  got  within  feet,  within  inches,  of  their 
prey,  only  to  be  dragged  away  by  the  mysterious  pro- 
tector of  militant  maidens, — centrifugal  force.     Prob- 
ably  never  before   in   the   annals   of  the   struggle   for 
political  freedom  had  maidens  found  such  a  protection, 
invisible,  sinister  and  complete.     Had  the  education  of 
policemen  in  England  included  a  course  of  mechanics, 
these  particular  two  policemen  would  have  known  that 
they  were  seeking  the  impossible  and  fighting  against 
that  which  was  stronger  than  ten  thousand  policemen. 
But  they  would  not  give  up.     At  each  fresh  attempt 
they  hoped  by  guile  to  overcome  their  unseen  enemy, 
as  the  gambler  hopes  at  each  fresh  throw  to  outwit 
chance.     The  jeers   of  the  audience  pricked  them  to 
desperation,  for  in  encounters  with  females  like  Jane 
Foley  and  Audrey  they  had  been  accustomed  to  the 
active  sympathy  of  the  public.     But  centrifugal  force 
had   rendered   them   ridiculous,    and    the   public   never 
sympathises  with  those  whom  ridicule  has  covered.   The 
strange   and  sidesplitting  effects   of  centrifugal  force 
had   transformed   about   a   hundred   indifferent   young 
men  and  women  into  ardent  and  convinced  supporters 
of  feminism  in  its  most  advanced  form. 

In  the  course  of  her  slow  revolution  Audrey  saw  the 


202  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

resetted  steward  arguing  with  the  second  loud  man, 
no  doubt  to  persuade  him  to  stop  the  wheel.  Then  out 
of  the  tail  of  her  eye  she  saw  the  steward  run  violently 
from  the  tent.  And  then  while  her  back  was  towards 
the  entrance  she  was  deafened  by  a  prodigious  roar 
of  delight  from  the  mob.  The  two  policemen  had  fled 
also — probably  for  reinforcements  and  appliances 
against  centrifugal  force.  In  their  pardonable  excite- 
ment they  had,  however,  committed  the  imprudence  of 
departing  together.  An  elementary  knowledge  of 
strategy  should  have  warned  them  against  such  a  mis- 
take. The  wheel  stopped  immediately.  The  second 
loud  men  beckoned  with  laughter  to  Jane  Foley  and 
Audrey,  who  rose  and  hopefully  skipped  towards  him. 
Audrey  at  any  rate  was  as  self-conscious  as  though 
she  had  been  on  the  stage. 

"Here's  th'  back  way,"  said  the  second  loud  man, 
pointing  to  a  coarse  curtain  in  the  obscurity  of  the 
nether  parts  of  the  enclosure. 

They  ran,  Jane  Foley  first,  and  vanished  from  the 
regions  of  the  Joy-wheel  amid  terrific  acclamations 
given  in  a  strong  Midland  accent. 

The  next  moment  they  found  themselves  in  a  part 
of  the  Blue  City  which  nobody  had  taken  the  trouble 
to  paint  blue.  The  one  blue  object  was  a  small  patch 
of  sky,  amid  clouds,  overhead.  On  all  sides  were 
wooden  flying  buttresses,  supporting  the  boundaries 
of  the  Joy-wheel  enclosure  to  the  south-east,  of  the 
Parade  restaurant  and  bar  to  the  south-west,  and  of  a 
third  establishment  of  good  cheer  to  the  north.  Upon 
the  ground  were  brick-ends,  cinders,  bits  of  wood,  bits 
of  corrugated  iron,  and  all  the  litter  and  refuse  cast 
out  of  sight  of  the  eyes  of  visitors  to  the  Exhibition 
of  Progress. 

With    the    fear    of    the    police    beliind    them    they 


THE  BLUE  CITY        *  203 

stumbled  forward  a  few  yards,  and  then  saw  a  small 
ramshackle  door  swinging  slightly  to  and  fro  on  one 
hinge.  Jane  Foley  pulled  it  open.  They  both  went 
in  to  a  narrow  passage.  On  the  mildewed  wall  of  the 
passage  was  pinned  up  a  notice  in  red  ink:  "Any 
waitress  taking  away  any  apron  or  cap  from  the 
Parade  Restaurant  and  Bar  will  be  fined  one  shilling." 
Further  on  was  another  door,  also  ajar.  Jane  Foley 
pushed  against  it,  and  a  tiny  room  of  irregular  shape 
was  disclosed.  In  this  room  a  stout  woman  in  grey 
was  counting  a  pile  of  newly  laundered  caps  and 
aprons,  and  putting  them  out  of  one  hamper  into  an- 
other. Audrey  remembered  seeing  the  woman  at  the 
counter  of  the  Restaurant  and  Bar. 

"The  poHce  are  after  us.  They'll  be  here  in  a 
minute,"  said  Jane  Foley,  simply. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  woman  in  grey,  with  the  care- 
lessness of  fatigue.  "Are  you  them  stone-throwing  lot.? 
They've  just  been  in  to  tell  me  about  it.  What  d'ye 
do  it  for.?" 

"We  do  it  for  you — amongst  others,"  Jane  Foley 
smiled. 

"Nay.  That  ye  don't!"  said  the  woman  positively. 
"I've  got  a  vote  for  the  city  council,  and  I  want  no 
more." 

"Well,  you  don't  want  us  to  get  caught,  do  you?" 

"No,  I  don't  know  as  I  do.  Ye  look  a  couple  o' 
bonny  wenches." 

"Let's  have  two  caps  and  aprons,  then,"  said  Jane 
Foley  smoothly.  "We'll  pay  the  shilling  fine."  She 
laughed  lightly.  "And  a  bit  more.  If  the  police  get 
in  here  we  shall  have  to  struggle,  you  know,  and  they'll 
break  the  place  up." 

Audrey  produced  another  half  sovereign. 


204  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"But  what  shall  ye  do  with  yer  hats  and  coats?" 
the  woman  demanded. 

"Give  them  to  you,  of  course." 

The  woman  regarded  the  hats  and  coats. 

"I  couldn't  get  near  them  coats,"  she  said.  "And 
if  I  put  on  one  o'  them  there  hats  my  old  man  'ud  rise 
from  the  grave — that  he  would.  Still,  I  don't  wish  ye 
any   harm." 

She  shut  and  locked  the  door. 

In  about  a  minute  two  waitresses  in  aprons  and 
streamered  caps  of  immaculate  purity  emerged  from 
the  secret  places  of  the  Parade  Restaurant  and  Bar, 
slipped  round  the  end  of  the  counter,  and  started  with 
easy  indifference  to  saunter  away  into  the  grounds 
after  the  manner  of  restaurant  girls  who  have  been 
gifted  with  half-an-hour  off.  The  tabled  expanse  in 
front  of  the  Parade  erection  was  busy  with  people, 
some  sitting  at  the  tables  and  supporting  the  estab- 
lishment, but  many  more  merely  taking  advantage  of 
the  pitch  to  observe  all  possible  exciting  developments 
of  the  suffragette  shindy. 

And  as  the  criminals  were  modestly  getting  clear,  a 
loud  and  imperious  voice  called: 

"Hey !" 

Audrey,  lacking  experience,  hesitated. 

"Hey  there !" 

They  both  turned,  for  the  voice  would  not  be  denied. 
It  belonged  to  a  man  sitting  with  another  man  at  a 
table  on  the  outskirts  of  the  group  of  tables.  It  was 
the  voice  of  the  rosetted  steward,  who  beckoned  in  a 
not  unfriendly  style. 

"Bring  us  two  liqueur  brandies,  miss,"  he  cried. 
"And  look  slippy,  if  ye  please." 

The  sharp  tone,  so  sure  of  obedience,  gave  Audrey 
a  queer  sensation  of  being  in  reality  a  waitress  doomed 


THE  BLUE  CITY  205 

to  tolerate  the  rough  bullying  of  gentlemen  urgently 
desiring  alcohol.  And  the  fierce  thought  that  women 
— especially  restaurant  waitresses — must  and  should 
possess  the  vote  surged  through  her  mind  more  power- 
fully than  ever. 

"I'll  never  have  the  chance  again,"  she  muttered  to 
herself.     And  marched  to  the  counter. 

"Two  liqueur  brandies,  please,"  she  said  to  the 
woman  in  grey,  who  had  left  her  apron  calculations. 
"That's  all  right,"  she  murmured,  as  the  woman  stared 
a  question  at  her.  Then  the  woman  smiled  to  herself, 
and  poured  out  the  liqueur  brandies  from  a  labelled 
bottle  with  startling  adroitness,  and  dashed  the  full 
glasses  on  to  a  brass  tray. 

As  Audrey  walked  across  the  gravel  carefully  bal- 
ancing the  tray,  she  speculated  whether  the  public  eye 
would  notice  the  shape  of  her  small  handbag,  which 
was  attached  by  a  safety  pin  to  her  dress  beneath  the 
apron,  and  whether  her  streamers  were  streaming  out 
far  behind  her  head. 

Before  she  could  put  the  tray  down  on  the  table, 
the  rosetted  steward,  who  looked  pale,  snatched  ,one 
of  the  glasses  and  gulped  down  its  entire  contents. 

"I  wanted  it !"  said  he,  smacking  his  lips.  "I  wanted 
it  bad.  They'll  catch  'em  all  right.  I  should  know 
the  young  'un  again  anywhere.  I'll  swear  to  identify 
her  in  any  court.  And  I  will.  Tasty  little  piece  o' 
goods,  too!  .  .  .  But  not  so  good-looking  as  you," 
he  added,  gazing  suddenly  at  Audre}^ 

"None  o'  your  sauce,"  snapped  Audrey,  and  walked 
off,  leaving  the  tray  behind. 

The  two  men  exploded  into  coarse  but  amiable  laugh- 
ter, and  called  to  her  to  return,  but  she  would  not. 
"You  can  pay  the  other  young  lady,"  s;-.e  said  over 


206  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

her  shoulder,  pointing  vaguely  to   the   counter  where 
there  was  now  a  bevy  of  other  young  ladies. 

Five  minutes  later  Miss  Ingate,  and  the  chauffeur  ' 
also,  received  a  very  appreciable  shock.  Half  an  hour 
later  the  car,  having  called  at  the  telegraph  office,  and 
also  at  the  aghast  lodgings  of  the  waitresses,  to  enable 
them  to  re-attire  and  to  pack,  had  quitted  Birming- 
ham. 

That  night  they  reached  Northampton.  At  the  post- 
office  there  Jane  Foley  got  a  telegram.  And  when  the 
three  were  seated  in  a  corner  of  the  curtained  and 
stuffy  dining-room  of  the  small  hotel,  Jane  said,  ad- 
dressing herself  specially  to  Audrey: 

"It  won't  be  safe  for  us  to  return  to  Paget  Gardens 
to-morrow.  And  perhaps  not  to  any  of  our  places  in 
London." 

"That  won't  matter,"  said  Audrey,  who  was  now 
becoming  accustomed  to  the  world  of  conspiracy  and 
chicane  in  which  Jane  Foley  carried  on  her  existence 
with  such  a  deceiving  air  of  the  matter-of-fact.  "We'll 
go  anywhere,  won't  we,  Winnie.?" 

And  Miss  Ingate  assented. 

"Well,"  said  Jane  Foley.  "I've  just  had  a  telegram 
arranging  for  us  to  go  to  Frinton." 

"You  don't  mean  Frinton-on-Sea.'"'  exclaimed  Miss 
Ingate,  suddenly  excited. 

"It  is  on  the  sea,"  said  Jane.  "We  have  to  go 
through  Colchester.     Do  you  know  it?" 

"Do  I  know  it!"  repeated  Miss  Ingate.  "I  know 
everybody  in  Frinton,  except  the  Germans.  When  I'm 
at  home  I  buy  my  bacon  at  Frinton.  Are  you  going  to 
a  hotel  there.?" 

"No,"  said  Jane.     "To  some  people  named  Spatt." 

"There's  nobody  that  is  anybody  named  Spatt  living 
at  Frinton,"  said  Miss  Ingate. 


THE  BLUE  CITY  207 

"They  haven't  been  there  long." 

"Oh!"  murmured  Miss  Ingate.  "Of  course  if  that's 
it  ...  !  I  can't  guarantee  what's  happened  since  I 
began  my  pilgrimages.  But  I  think  I  shall  wriggle 
off  home  quietly  as  soon  as  we  get  to  Colchester.  This 
afternoon's  business  has  been  too  feverish  for  me. 
When  the  policeman  held  up  his  hand  as  we  came 
through  Blisworth,  I  thought  you  were  caught.  I  shall 
just  go  home." 

"I  don't  care  much  about  going  to  Frinton,  Jenny," 
said  Audrey. 

Indeed,  Moze  lay  within  not  many  miles  of  Frinton- 
on-Sea. 

Then  Audrey  and  Miss  Ingate  observed  a  phe- 
nomenon that  was  both  novel  and  extremely  disturb- 
ing.    Tears  came  into  the  eyes  of  Jane  Foley. 

"Don't  say  it,  Audrey,  don't  say  it!"  she  appealed 
in  a  wet  voice.  "I  shall  have  to  go  myself.  And  you 
simply  can't  imagine  how  I  hate  going  all  alone  into 
these  houses  that  we're  invited  to.  I'd  much  sooner 
be  in  lodgings,  as  we  were  last  night.  But  these  homes 
in  quiet  places  here  and  there  are  very  useful  some- 
times. They  all  belong  to  members  of  the  Union,  you 
know;  and  we  have  to  use  them.  But  I  wish  we  hadn't. 
I've  met  Mrs.  Spatt  once.  I  didn't  think  you'd  throw 
me  over  just  at  the  worst  part.  The  Spatts  will  take 
all  of  us  and  be  glad." 

("They  won't  take  me,"  said  Miss  Ingate  under  her 
breath. ) 

"I  shall  come  with  you,"  said  Audrey,  caressing  the 
recreant  who,  while  equal  to  trifles  such  as  policemen, 
magistrates,  and  prisons,  was  miserably  afraid  of  a 
strange  home.  In  fact  Audrey  now  liked  Jane  much 
more  than  ever,  liked  her  completely, — and  perhaps 
admired  her   rather   less,   though  her   admiration  was 


208  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

still  intense.  And  the  thought  in  Audrej^'s  mind  was : 
"Never  will  I  desert  this  girl !  I'm  a  militant,  ±00,  now, 
and  I  shall  stick  by  her."  She  was  full  of  a  happiness 
which  she  could  not  and  did  not  want  to  understand. 

The  next  morning  all  the  newspaper  posters  in 
Northampton  bore  the  words:  "Policemen  and  suf- 
fragettes on  Joy-wheel,"  or  some  variation  of  these 
words.  And  they  bore  nothing  else.  And  in  all  the 
towns  and  many  of  the  villages  through  which  they 
passed  on  the  way  to  Colchester,  the  same  legend 
greeted  their  flying  eyes.  Audrey  and  Miss  Ingate, 
in  the  motor-car,  read  with  great  care  all  the  papers. 
Audrey  blushed  at  the  descriptions  of  herself,  which 
were  flattering.  It  seemed  that  the  Cabinet  Minister's 
political  meeting  had  been  seriously  damaged  by  the 
episode,  for  the  reason  that  rumours  of  the  perform- 
ance on  the  Joy-wheel  had  impaired  the  spell  of  elo- 
quence and  partially  emptied  the  hall.  And  this  was 
the  more  disappointing  in  that  the  police  had  been  sure 
that  nothing  untoward  would  occur.  It  seemed  also 
that  the  police  were  on  the  track  of  the  criminals. 

"Are  they!"  exclaimed  Jane  Foley,  smiling. 

Then  the  car  approached  a  city  of  towers  on  a  hill, 
and  as  it  passed  by  the  station,  which  was  in  the  valley, 
Miss  Ingate  demanded  a  halt.  She  got  out  in  the 
station  yard  and  transferred  her  belongings  to  a  cab. 

"I  shall  drive  home  from  here,"  she  said.  "I've  often 
done  it  before.  After  all,  I  did  play  the  barrel  orgai 
all  the  way  down  Regent  Street.  Surely  I  can  rest  on 
the  barrel  organ,  can't  I,  Miss  Foley — at  my  age.? 
,  .  .  What  a  business  I  shall  have  when  I  do  get  home, 
and  nobody  expecting  me !" 

And  when  certain  minor  arrangements  had  been 
made,  the  car  mounted  the  hill  into  Colchester  and  took 
the  Frinton  road,  leaving  Miss  Ingate' s  fly  far  behind. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


THE    SPATTS 


The  house  of  the  Spatts  was  large,  imposing,  and 
variegated.  It  had  turrets,  balconies,  and  architec- 
tural nooks  in  such  quantity  that  the  unaided  indi- 
vidual eye  could  not  embrace  it  all  at  once.  It  over- 
looked, from  a  height,  the  grounds  of  the  Frinton 
Sports  Club,  and  a  new  member  of  this  club,  upon  first 
beholding  the  residence,  had  made  the  immortal  re- 
mark: "It  wants  at  least  fourteen  people  to  look  at 
it."  The  house  stood  in  the  middle  of  an  unfinished 
garden,  which  promised  ultimately  to  be  as  hetero- 
geneous as  itself,  but  which  at  present  was  merely  an 
expanse  of  sorely  wounded  earth. 

The  time  was  early  summer,  and  therefore  the  sum- 
mer dining-room  of  the  Spatts  was  in  use.  This  dining- 
room  consisted  of  one  white,  windowed  wall,  a  tiled 
floor,  and  a  roof  of  wood.  The  windows  gave  into  the 
winter  dining-room,  which  was  a  white  apartment, 
sparsely  curtained  and  cushioned  with  chintz,  and  con- 
taining very  few  pieces  of  furniture  or  pictures.  The 
Spatts  considered,  rightly,  that  furniture  and  pictures 
were  unhygienic  and  the  secret  lairs  of  noxious  germs. 
Had  the  Spatts  flourished  twenty-five  years  earlier 
their  dining-room  would  have  been  covered  with  brown 
paper  upon  which  would  have  hung  permanent  photo- 
graphs of  European  masterpieces  of  graphic  art,  and 
there  would  have  been  a  multiplicity  of  draperies  and 
specimens  of  battered  antique  furniture,  with  a  warm- 

209 


210  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

ing-pan  or  so  suspended  here  and  there  in  place  of 
sporting  trophies.  But  the  Spatts  had  not  begun  to 
flourish  twenty-five  years  ago.  They  flourished  very 
few  years  ago  and  they  still  flourish. 

As  the  summer  dining-room  had  only  one  wall,  it 
follows  that  it  was  open  to  the  powers  of  the  air.  This 
result  had  been  foreseen  by  the  Spatts — had  indeed 
been  expressly  arranged,  for  they  believed  strongly  in 
the  powers  of  the  air,  as  being  beneficent  powers.  It 
is  true  that  they  generally  had  sniffling  colds,  but  their 
argument  was  that  these  maladies  had  no  connection 
whatever  with  the  powers  of  the  air,  which,  according 
to  their  theory,  saved  them  from  much  worse. 

They  and  their  guests  were  now  seated  at  dinner. 
Twilight  was  almost  lost  in  night.  The  table  was 
illuminated  by  four  candles  at  the  corners,  and  the 
flames  of  these  candles  flickered  in  the  healthful  eve- 
ning breeze,  dropping  pink  wax  on  the  candlesticks. 
They  were  surrounded  by  the  mortal  remains  of  tiny 
moths,  but  other  tiny  moths  would  not  heed  the  warn- 
ing and  continually  shot  themselves  into  the  flames. 
On  the  outskirts  of  the  table  moved  with  silent  stealth 
the  forms  of  two  middle-aged  and  ugly  servants. 

Mrs.  Spatt  was  very  tall  and  very  thin,  and  the 
simplicity  of  her  pale  green  dress — sole  reminder  of 
the  brown-paper  past — was  calculated  to  draw  atten- 
tion to  these  attributes.  She  had  an  important  red- 
dish nose,  and  a  mysterious  look  of  secret  confidence, 
which  never  left  her  even  in  the  most  trying  crises. 
Mr,  Spatt  also  was  very  tall  and  very  thin.  His  head 
was  several  sizes  too  small,  and  part  of  his  insignificant 
face,  which  one  was  apt  to  miss  altogether  in  contem- 
plating his  body,  was  hidden  under  a  short  grey  beard. 
Siegfried  Spatt,  the  sole  child  of  the  union,  though  but 


THE  SPATTS  211 

seventeen,  was  as  tall  and  as  thin  as  his  father  and 
his  mother;  he  had  a  pale  face  and  red  hands. 

The  guests  were  Audrey,  Jane  Foley,  and  a  young 
rubicund  gentleman,  beautifully  clothed,  and  with  fair 
curly  locks,  named  Ziegler.  Mr.  Ziegler  was  far  more 
perfectly  at  ease  than  anybody  else  at  the  table,  which 
indeed  as  a  whole  was  rendered  haggard  and  nervous 
by  the  precarious  state  of  the  conversation,  expecting 
its  total  decease  at  any  moment.  At  intervals  some 
one  lifted  the  limp  dying  body — it  sank  back — was 
lifted  again — struggled  feebly — relapsed.  Young  Sieg-^ 
fried  was  excessively  tongue-tied  and  self-conscious, 
and  his  demeanour  frankly  admitted  it.  Jane  Foley, 
acknowledged  heroine  in  certain  fields,  sat  like  a  school- 
girl at  her  first  dinner-party.  Audrey  maintained  her 
widowhood,  but  scarcely  with  credit.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Spatt  were  as  usual  too  deeply  concerned  about  the 
awful  condition  of  the  universe  to  display  that 
elasticity  of  mood  which  continuous  chatter  about  noth- 
ing in  particular  demands.  And  they  were  too  worship- 
ful of  the  best  London  conventions  not  to  regard  silence 
at  table  as  appalling.  In  the  part  of  the  country  from 
which  Jane  Foley  sprang,  hosts  will  sit  mute  through 
a  meal  and  think  naught  of  it.  But  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Spatt  were  of  different  stuff.  All  these  five  appeared 
to  be  in  serious  need  of  conversation  pills.  Only  Mr. 
Ziegler  beheld  his  companions  with  a  satisfied  equanim- 
ity that  was  insensible  to  spiritual  suffering.  Happily 
at  the  most  acute  moments  the  gentle  night  wind, 
meandering  slowly  from  the  east  across  leagues  of 
North  Sea,  would  induce  in  one  or  another  a  sneeze 
which  gave  some  semblance  of  vitality  and  vigour  to 
the  scene. 

After  one  of  these  sneezes  it  was  that  Jane  Foley, 


212  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

conscience-stricken,    tried   to   stimulate   the   exchanges 
by  an  effort  of  her  own. 

"And  what  are  the  folks  like  in  Frinton?"  she  de- 
manded, blushing,  and  looking  up.  As  she  looked  up 
young  Siegfried  looked  down,  lest  he  might  encounter 
her  glance  and  be  utterly  discountenanced. 

Jane  Foley's  question  was  unfortunate. 

"We  know  nothing  of  them,"  said  Mrs.  Spatt,  pained. 
"Of  course  I  have  received  and  paid  a  few  purely  formal 
calls.  But  as  regards  friends  and  acquaintances,  we 
•prefer  to  import  them  from  London.  As  for  the  holi- 
day-makers, one  sees  them,  naturally.  They  appear 
to  lead  an  exclusively  physical  existence." 

"My  dear,"  put  in  Mr.  Spatt  stiffly.  "The  residents 
are  no  better.  The  women  play  golf  all  day  on  that 
appalling  golf-course,  and  then  after  tea  they  go  into 
the  town  to  change  their  library  books.  But  I  do  not 
believe  that  they  ever  read  their  library  books.  The 
mentality  of  the  town  is  truly  remarkable.  However, 
I  am  informed  that  there  are  many  towns  like  it." 

"You  bet!"  murmured  Siegfried  Spatt,  and  then 
tried,  vainly,  to  suck  back  the  awful  remark  whence  it 
had  come. 

Mr.  Ziegler,  speaking  without  passion  or  sorrow, 
added  his  views  about  Frinton.  He  asserted  that  it 
was  the  worst  example  of  stupid  waste  of  opportunities 
he  had  ever  encountered,  even  in  England.  He  pointed 
out  that  there  was  no  band,  no  pier,  no  casino,  no 
shelters — and  not  even  a  tree;  and  that  there  were  no 
rules  to  govern  the  place.  He  finished  by  remarking 
that  no  German  state  would  tolerate  such  a  pleasure- 
resort.  In  this  judgment  he  employed  an  excellent 
English  accent,  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  thickening 
of  the  t's  and  thinning  of  the  d's. 
Mr.  Ziegler  left  nothing  to  be  said. 


THE  SPATTS  213 

Then  the  conversation  sighed  and  really  did  expire. 
It  might  have  survived  had  not  the  Spatts  had  a  rule, 
explained  previously  to  those  whom  it  concerned, 
against  talking  shop.  Their  attachment  to  this  rule 
was  heroic.  In  the  present  instance  shop  was  suf- 
fragism.  The  Spatts  had  developed  into  supporters 
of  militancy  in  a  very  curious  way.  Mrs.  Spatt's  sister, 
a  widow,  had  been  mixed  up  with  the  Union  for  years. 
One  day  she  was  fined  forty  shillings  or  a  week's  im- 
prisonment for  a  political  peccadillo  involving  a  hatpin 
and  a  policeman.  It  was  useless  for  her  to  remind  the 
magistrate  that  she,  like  Mrs.  Spatt,  was  the  daughter 

of  the  celebrated  statesman  B ,  who  in  the  fifties, 

had  done  so  much  for  Britain.  (Lo!  The  source  of 
that  mysterious  confidence  that  always  supported  Mrs. 
Spatt!)  The  magistrate  had  no  historic  sense.  She 
went  to  prison.  At  least  she  was  on  the  way  thither 
when  Mr.  Spatt  paid  the  fine  in  spite  of  her.  The 
same  night  Mr.  Spatt  wrote  to  his  favourite  evening 
paper  to  point  out  the  despicable  ingratitude  of  a 
country  which  would  have  imprisoned  a  daughter  of 
the  celebrated  B ,  and  announced  that  hencefor- 
ward he  would  be  an  active  supporter  of  suffragism, 
which  hitherto  had  interested  him  only  academically. 
He  was  a  wealthy  man,  and  his  money  and  his  house 
and  his  pen  were  at  the  service  of  the  Union, — but 
always  with  discretion. 

Audrey  and  Jane  Foley  had  learnt  all  this  privately 
from  Mrs.  Spatt  on  their  arrival,  after  they  had  told 
such  part  of  their  tale  as  Jane  Foley  had  deemed  suit- 
able, and  they  had  further  learnt  that  suffragism  would 
not  be  a  welcome  topic  at  their  table,  partly  on  ac- 
count of  the  servants  and  partly  on  account  of  Mr. 
Ziegler,  whose  opinions  were  quite  clearly  opposed  to 
the  movement,  but  whom  they   admired  for  true  and 


214  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

rare  culture.  He  was  a  cousin  of  German  residents 
in  First  Avenue  and,  visiting  them  often,  had  been 
discovered  by  Mr.  Spatt  in  the  afternoon-tea  train. 

And  just  as  the  ices  came  to  compete  with  the  night 
wind,  the  postman  arrived  like  a  deliverer.  The  post- 
man had  to  pass  the  dining-room  en  route  by  the 
circuitous  drive  to  the  front-door,  and  when  dinner  was 
afoot  he  would  hand  the  letters  to  the  parlourmaid, 
who  would  divide  them  into  two  portions,  and,  putting 
both  on  a  salver,  offer  the  salver  first  to  Mrs.  and 
then  to  Mr.  Spatt,  while  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Spatt  begged 
guests,  if  there  were  any,  to  excuse  the  quaint  and 
indeed  unusual  custom,  pardonable  only  on  the  plea 
that  any  tidings  from  London  ought  to  be  savoured 
instantly  in  such  a  place  as  Frinton. 

After  leaving  his  little  pile  untouched  for  some  time, 
Mr.  Spatt  took  advantage  of  the  diversion  caused  by 
the  brushing  of  the  cloth  and  the  distribution  of  finger- 
bowls  to  glance  at  the  topmost  letter,  which  was  ad- 
dressed in  a  woman's  hand. 

"She's  coming!"  he  exclaimed,  forgetting  to  apolo- 
gise in  the  sudden  excitement  of  news.  "Good  heavens!" 
He  looked  at  his  watch.  "She's  here.  I  heard  the  train 
several  minutes  ago!  She  must  be  here!  The  letter's 
been  delayed." 

"Who,  Alroy?"  demanded  Mrs.  Spatt  earnestly. 
"Not  that  Miss  Nickall  you  mentioned.'"' 

"Yes,  my  dove."  And  then  in  a  grave  tone  to  the 
parlourmaid:     "Give  this  letter  to  your  mistress." 

Mr.  Spatt,  cheered  by  the  new  opportunity  for  con- 
versation, and  in  his  eagerness  abrogating  all  rules, 
explained  how  he  had  been  in  London  on  the  previous 
day  for  a  performance  of  Strauss's  "Elektra,"  and 
according  to  his  custom  had  called  at  the  oflSces  of  the 
Suffragettes'  Union  to  see  whether  he  could  in  any  man- 


THE  SPATTS  215 

ner  aid  the  cause.  He  had  been  told  that  a  house  in 
Paget  Gardens  lent  to  the  Union  had  been  baselj  with- 
drawn from  service  by  its  owner  on  account  of  some 
embroilment  with  the  supreme  police  authorities  at 
Scotland  Yard,  and  that  one  of  the  inmates,  a  Miss 
Nickall,  the  poor  young  lady  who  had  had  her  arm 
broken  and  was  scarcely  convalescent,  had  need  of 
quietude  and  sea-air.  Mr.  Spatt  had  instantly  offered 
the  hospitality  of  his  home  to  Miss  Nickall,  whom  he 
had  seen  in  a  cab  and  who  was  very  sweet.  Miss  Nickall 
had  said  that  she  must  consult  her  companion.  It  now 
appeared  that  the  companion  was  gone  to  the  Midlands. 
This  episode  had  occurred  immediately  before  the  re- 
ceipt of  the  telegram  from  headquarters  asking  for 
shelter  for  Miss  Jane  Foley  and  Mrs.  Moncreiff. 

Mr.  Spatt's  excitement  had  now  communicated  it- 
self to  everybody  except  Mr.  Ziegler  and  Siegfried 
Spatt.  Jane  Foley  almost  recovered  her  presence  of 
mind,  and  Mrs.  Spatt  was  extraordinarily  interested 
to  learn  that  Miss  Nickall  was  an  American  painter 
who  had  lived  long  in  Paris,  and  that  Audrey  had  first 
made  her  acquaintance  in  Paris,  and  knew  Paris  well. 
Audrey's  motor-car  had  produced  a  considerable  im- 
pression on  Aurora  Spatt,  and  this  impression  was 
deepened  by  the  touch  about  Paris.  After  breathing 
mysterious  orders  into  the  ear  of  the  parlourmaid  Mrs. 
Spatt  began  to  talk  at  large  about  music  in  Paris,  and 
Mr.  Spatt  made  comparisons  between  the  principal 
opera-houses  in  Europe.  He  proclaimed  for  the  Scala 
at  Milan;  but  Mr.  Ziegler,  who  had  metliodically  ac- 
cording to  a  fixed  plan  lived  in  all  European  capitals 
except  Paris — whither  he  was  soon  going,  said  that 
Mr.  Spatt  was  quite  wrong,  and  that  Milan  could  not 
hold  a  candle  to  Munich.  Mrs.  Spatt  enquired  whether 
Audrey  had  heard   Strauss's   "Elektra"   at  the   Paris 


216  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Opera  House.  Audrey  replied  that  Strauss's  "Elcktra" 
had  not  been  given  at  the  Paris  Opera  House. 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Spatt.  "This  prejudice  against 
the  greatest  modem  masterpieces  because  they  are  Ger- 
man is  a  very  sad  sign  in  Paris.  I  have  noticed  it  for 
a  long  time." 

Audrey,  who  most  irrationally  had  begun  to  be  an- 
noyed by  the  blandness  of  Mr.  Ziegler's  smile,  answered 
with  a  rival  blandness  : 

"In  Paris  they  do  not  reproach  Strauss  because  he 
is  German,  but  because  he  is  vulgar." 

Mrs.  Spatt  had  a  martyrised  expression.  In  her 
heart  she  felt  a  sick  trembling  of  her  religious  belief 
that  "Elektra"  was  the  greatest  opera  ever  composed. 
For  Audrey  had  the  prestige  of  Paris  and  of  the  auto- 
mobile. Mrs.  Spatt,  however,  said  not  a  word.  Mr. 
Zicgler,  on  the  other  hand,  after  shuffling  some  seconds 
for  utterance,  ejaculated  with  sublime  anger: 

"Vulgar!" 

His  rubicundity  had  increased  and  his  blandness  was 
dissolved.  A  terrible  sequel  might  have  occurred,  had 
not  the  crunch  of  wheels  on  the  drive  been  heard  at 
that  very  instant.  The  huge  dim  form  of  a  coach  drawn 
by  a  ghostly  horse  passed  along  towards  the  front- 
door, just  below  the  diners.  Almost  simultaneously 
the  electric  light  above  the  front-door  was  turned  on, 
casting  a  glare  across  a  section  of  the  inchoate  garden, 
where  no  flower  grew  save  the  dandelion.  Everybody 
sprang  up.  Host  and  hostess,  urged  by  hospitality, 
spun  first  into  the  drive,  and  came  level  with  the  vehicle 
precisely  as  the  vehicle  opened  its  invisible  interior. 
Jane  Foley  and  Audrey  saw  Miss  Nickall  emerge  from 
it  rather  slowly  and  cautiously,  with  her  white  kind 
face  and  her  arm  all  swathed  in  white. 

"Well,  Mr.   Spatt,"   came   the  American  benevolent 


THE  SPATTS  217 

voice  of  Nick.  "How  glad  I  am  to  see  you.  And  this 
is  Mrs.  Spatt?  Mrs.  Spatt!  Delighted,  Your  hus- 
band is  the  kindest,  sweetest  man,  Mrs.  Spatt,  that 
I've  met  in  years.  It  is  perfectly  sweet  of  you  to  have 
mc.  I  shouldn't  have  inflicted  myself  on  you — no,  I 
shouldn't — only  you  know  we  have  to  obey  orders.  I 
was  told  to  come  here,  and  here  I've  come,  with  a  glad 
heart." 

Audrey  was  touched  by  the  sight  and  voice  of  grey- 
haired  Nick,  with  her  trick  of  seeing  nothing  but  the 
best  in  everj^body,  transforming  everybody  into  saints, 
angels,  and  geniuses.  Her  smiles  and  her  tones  were 
irresistible.  They  were  like  the  wand  of  some  magical 
princess  come  to  break  a  sinister  thrall.  They  nearly 
humanised  the  gaunt  parlourmaid,  who  stood  grimly 
and  primly  waiting  until  these  tedious  sentimental  pre- 
liminaries should  cease  from  interfering  with  her  duties 
in  regard  to  the  luggage. 

"We  have  friends  of  yours  here.  Miss  Nickall," 
simpered  Mrs.  Spatt,  after  she  had  given  a  welcome. 
She  had  seen  Jane  Foley  and  Audrey  standing  ex- 
pectant just  behind  Mr.  Spatt,  and  outside  the  field 
of   the   electric   beam. 

Nick  glanced  round,  hesitated,  and  then  with  a  sud- 
den change  of  all  her  features  rushed  at  the  girls  re- 
gardless of  her  arm.     Her  joy  was  enchanting. 

"I  was  afraid — I  was  afraid "  she  murmured  as 

she  kissed  them.     Her  eyes  softly  glistened. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  after  a  moment,  "And  I  have 
got  a  surprise  for  you!  I  have  just!  You  may  say 
it's  some  surprise."  She  turned  towards  the  cab. 
"Musa,  now  do  come  out  of  that  waggon." 

And  from  the  blackness  of  the  cab's  interior  gingerly 
stepped  Musa,  holding  a  violin  case  in  his  hand. 

"Mrs.   Spatt,"  said  Nick.     "Let  me  introduce  Mr. 


218  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Musa.  Mr.  Musa  is  perhaps  the  greatest  violinist  in 
Paris — or  in  Europe.  Very  old  friend  of  ours.  He 
came  over  to  London  unexpectedly  just  as  I  was  start- 
ing for  Liverpool  Street  station  this  afternoon.  So 
I  did  the  only  thing  I  could  do.  I  couldn't  leave  him 
there — I  brought  him  along,  and  we  want  Mr.  Spatt 
to  recommend  us  a  hotel  in  Frinton  for  him."  And 
while  Musa  was  shyly  in  his  imperfect  English  greeting 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spatt,  she  whispered  to  Audrey:  "You 
don't  know.  You'd  never  guess.  A  big  concert  agent 
in  Paris  has  taken  him  up  at  last.  He's  going  to  play 
at  a  lot  of  concerts,  and  they  actually  paid  him  two 
thousand  five  hundred  francs  in  advance.  Isn't  it  a 
perfect  dream  .P" 

Audrey,  who  had  seen  Musa's  trustful  glance  at  Nick 
as  he  descended  from  the  cab,  was  suddenly  aware  of 
a  fierce  pang  of  hate  for  the  benignant  Nick,  and  a 
wave  of  fury  against  Musa.  The  phenomenon  was 
very  disconcerting. 

After  self-conscious  greetings,  Musa  almost  dragged 
Audrey  away  from  the  others. 

"It's  you  I  came  to  London  to  see,"  he  muttered  in 
an  unusual  voice. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


THE  MUTE 


It  was  upon  this  evening  that  Audrey  began  alarm- 
ingly to  develop  the  quality  of  being  incomprehensible 
— even  to  herself.  Like  most  young  women  and  men, 
she  had  been  convinced  from  an  early  age  that  she  was 
mysteriously  unlike  all  other  created  beings,  and — 
again  like  most  young  men  and  women — she  could  find, 
in  the  secrecy  of  her  o\^^l  heart,  plenty  of  proof  of  a 
unique  strangeness.  But  now  her  unreason  became 
formidable.  There  she  sat  with  her  striking  forehead 
and  her  quite  unimportant  nose,  in  the  large  austere 
drawing-room  of  the  Spatts,  which  was  so  pervaded  by 
artistic  chintz  that  the  slightest  movement  in  its  pro- 
duced a  crackle, — and  wondered  why  she  was  so  much 
queerer  than  other  girls  could  possibly  be. 

Neither  the  crackling  of  chintz  nor  the  aspect  of  the 
faces  in  the  drawing-room  was  conducive  to  clear 
psychological  analysis.  Mr.  Ziegler,  with  a  glass  of 
Pilsener  by  his  side  on  a  small  table,  and  a  cigar  in 
his  richly  jewelled  hand,  reposed  with  crossed  legs  in 
an  easy-chair.  He  had  utterly  recovered  from  the  mo- 
mentary irritation  caused  by  Audrey's  attack  on 
Strauss,  and  his  perfect  beaming  satisfaction  with  him- 
self made  a  phenomenon  which  would  have  distracted 
an  Indian  saint  from  the  contemplation  of  eternity  and 
nothingness.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spatt,  seated  as  far  as 
was  convenient  from  one  another  on  a  long  sofa,  their 
emaciated  bodies  very  upright  and  alert,  gazed  with 

219 


220  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

intense  expectation  at  Musa.  Musa  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  tuning  his  violin  with  little  twangs  and 
listening  to  the  twangs  as  to  a  secret  message. 

Miss  Nickall,  being  an  invalid,  had  excusably  gone 
to  bed,  and  Jane  Foley,  sharer  of  her  bedroom,  had 
followed.  The  happy  relief  on  Jane's  face  as  she  said 
good  night  to  her  hosts  had  testified  to  the  severity  of 
the  ordeal  of  hospitality  through  Avhich  she  had  so 
heroically  passed.  She  might  have  been  going  out  of 
prison  instead  of  going  out  of  the  most  intellectual 
drawing-room  in  Frinton. 

Audrey,  too,  would  have  liked  to  retire,  for  automo- 
biles and  sensations  had  exhausted  her;  but  just  at  this 
point  her  unreason  had  begun  to  operate.  She  would 
not  leave  Musa  alone,  because  Miss  Nickall  was  leaving 
him  alone.  Yet  she  did  not  feel  at  all  benevolent 
towards  Musa.  She  was  angry  with  him  for  having 
quitted  Paris.  She  was  angry  Math  him  for  having  said 
to  her,  in  such  a  peculiar  tone:  "It's  you  I  came  to 
London  to  see."  She  was  angry  with  him  for  not 
having  found  an  opportunity,  during  the  picnic  meal 
provided  for  the  two  newcomers  after  the  regular  din- 
ner, to  explain  why  he  had  come  to  London  to  see  her. 
She  was  angry  with  him  for  the  dark  hostility  which 
he  had  at  once  displayed  towards  Mr.  Ziegler,  though 
she  herself  hated  the  innocent  Mr.  Ziegler  with  the 
ferocity  of  a  woman  of  the  Revolution.  And  further, 
she  was  glad,  ridiculously  glad,  that  Musa  h9,d  come 
to  London  to  see  her.  Lastly  she  was  aware  of  a  most 
irrational  objection  to  the  manner  in  which  Miss 
Nickall  and  Musa  said  good  night  to  one  another,  and 
the  obvious  fact  that  Musa  in  less  than  an  hour  had 
reached  terms  of  familiarity  with  Jane  Foley. 

She  thought: 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  why  he  has  given  up  his 


THE  MUTE  221 

practising  in  Paris  to  come  to  see  me.  But  if  it  is 
what  I  feel  sure  it  is,  there  will  be  trouble.  .  .  .  Why- 
do  I  stay  in  this  ghastly  drawing-room?  I  am  dying 
to  go  to  sleep,  and  I  simply  detest  everybody  in  the 
room.  I  detest  Musa  more  than  all,  because  as  usual 
he  has  been  acting  like  a  child.  .  .  .  Why  can't  you 
smile  at  him,  Audrey  Moze.?  Why  frown  and  pretend 
you're  cross  when  you  know  you  aren't,  Audrey  Moze.? 
...  I  am  cross,  and  he  shall  suffer.  Was  this  a  time 
to  leave  his  practising — and  the  concerts  soon  coming 
on?  I  positively  prefer  this  Zieglcr  man  to  him.  Yes, 
I  do."     So  ran  her  reflections,  and  they  annoyed  her. 

"What  would  you  wish  me  to  play?"  asked  Musa, 
when  he  had  definitely  finished  twanging.  Audrey- 
noticed  that  his  English  accent  was  getting  a  little  less 
French.  She  had  to  admit  that,  though  his  appear- 
ance was  extravagantly  un-British,  it  was  distinguished. 
The  immensity  of  his  black  silk  cravat  made  the  black 
cravat  of  Mr.  Spatt  seem  like  a  bootlace  round  his 
thin  neck. 

"Whatever  you  like,  Mr.  Musa,"  replied  Aurora 
Spatt.     "Phaser' 

And  as  a  fact  the  excellent  woman,  majestic  now  in 
spite  of  her  red  nose  and  her  excessive  thinness,  did 
not  care  what  Musa  played.  He  had  merely  to  play. 
She  had  decided  for  herself,  from  the  conversation, 
that  he  was  a  very  celebrated  performer,  and  she  had 
ascertained,  by  direct  questioning,  that  he  had  never 
performed  in  England.  She  was  determined  to  be  able 
to  say  to  all  comers  till  death  took  her  that  "Musa — 
the  great  Musa,  you  know — first  played  in  England 
in  my  own  humble  drawing-room."  The  thing  itself 
was  actually  about  to  occur;  nothing  could  stop  it  from 
occurring;  and  the  thought  of  the  immediate  realisa- 
tion of  her  desire  and  ambition  gave  Mrs.  Spatt  greater, 


222  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

and  more  real,  pleasure  than  she  had  had  for  years ; 
it  even  fortified  her  against  the  possible  resentment  of 
her  cherished  Mr.  Ziegler. 

"French  music — would  you  wish?"  Musa  suggested. 

"Is  there  any  French  music.''  That  is  to  say,  of 
artistic  importance.'"'  asked  Mr.  Ziegler,  calmly.  "I 
have  never  heard  of  it." 

He  was  not  consciously  being  rude.  Nor  was  he 
trying  to  be  funny.  His  question  implied  an  honest 
belief.  His  assertion  was  sincere.  He  glanced,  blink- 
ing slightly,  round  the  room,  with  a  self-confidence  that 
was  either  terrible  or  pathetic,  according  to  the  degree 
of  your  own  self-confidence. 

Audrey  said  to  herself: 

"I'm  glad  this  isn't  my  drawing-room."  And  she 
was  almost  frightened  by  the  thought  that  that  skull 
opposite  to  her  was  absolutely  impenetrable,  and  tliat 
it  would  go  down  to  the  grave  unpierced  with  all  its 
collection  of  ideas  intact  and  braggart. 

As  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spatt,  they  were  both  in  the 
state  of  not  knowing  where  to  look.  Immediately  their 
gaze  met  another  gaze  it  leapt  away  as  from  something 
dangerous  or  obscene. 

"I  will  play  Debussy's  Toccata  for  violin  solo,"  Musa 
announced  tersely.  He  had  blushed;  his  great  eyes 
were  sparkling.     And  he  began  to  play. 

And  as  soon  as  he  had  played  a  few  bars,  Audrey 
gave  a  start,  fortunately  not  a  physical  start,  and  she 
blushed  also.  Musa  sternly  winked  at  her.  French- 
men do  not  make  a  practice  of  winking,  but  he  had 
learnt  the  accomplishment  for  fun  from  Miss  Thomp- 
kins  in  Paris.  The  wink  caused  Audrey  surreptitiously 
to  observe  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spatt.  It  was  no  relief  to 
her  to  perceive  that  these  two  were  listening  to  De- 
bussy's Toccata  for  solo  vioUn  with  the  trained  and 


THE  ^lUTE  223 

appreciative  attention  of  people  who  had  heard  it  often 
before  in  the  various  capitals  of  Europe,  who  knew  it 
by  heart,  and  who  knew  at  just  what  passages  to  raise 
the  head,  to  give  a  nod  of  recognition  or  a  gesture  of 
ecstasy.  The  bare  room  was  filled  with  the  sound  of 
Musa's  fiddle  and  with  the  high  musical  culture  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Spatt.  When  the  piece  was  over  they  clapped 
discreetly,  and  looked  with  soft  intensity  at  Audrey, 
as  if  murmuring:  "You,  too,  are  a  cultured  cosmo-. 
politan.  You  share  our  emotion."  And  across  the 
face  of  Mrs.  Spatt  spread  a  glow  triumphant,  for  Musa 
now  positively  had  played  for  the  first  time  in  England 
in  her  drawing-room,  and  she  foresaw  hundreds  of 
occasions  on  which  she  could  refer  to  the  matter  with 
a  fitting  air  of  casualness.  The  glow  triumphant,  how- 
ever, paled  somewhat  as  she  felt  upon  herself  the  eye 
of  Mr.  Ziegler. 

"Where  is  Siegfried, '  Alroy .'"'  she  demanded,  after 
having  thanked  Musa.  "I  wouldn't  have  had  him  miss 
that  Debussy  for  anything,  but  I  hadn't  noticed  that 
he  was  gone.     He  adores  Debussy." 

"I  think  it  is  like  bad  Bach,"  Mr.  Ziegler  put  in 
suddenly.  Then  he  raised  his  glass  and  imbibed  a  good 
portion  of  the  beer  specially  obtained  and  provided 
for  him  by  his  hostess  and  admirer,  Mrs.  Spatt. 

"Do  you  really?"  murmured  Mrs.  Spatt,  with  depre- 
cation. 

"There's  something  in  the  comparison,"  Mr.  Spatt 
admitted,    thoughtfully. 

"Why  not  like  good  Bach?"  Musa  asked,  glaring  in 
a  very  strange  manner  at  Mr.  Ziegler, 

"Bosh!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Ziegler  with  a  most  notable 
imperturbability.  "Only  Bach  himself  could  com-pose 
good  Bach. 


j> 


224  TPIE  LION'S  SHARE 

Musa's  breathing  could  be  heard  across  the  drawing- 
room.  < 

"Eh  bien!"  said  Musa.  "Now  I  will  play  for  you 
Debussy's  Toccata.  I  was  not  playing  it  before.  I 
was  playing  the  Chaconne  of  Bach,  the  most  famous 
composition  for  the  violin  in  the  world." 

He  did  not  embroider  the  statement.  He  left  it  in 
its  nakedness.  Nor  did  he  permit  anybody  else  to 
embroider  it.  Before  a  word  of  any  kind  could  be 
uttered  he  had  begun  to  play  again.  Probabl}^  in  all 
the  annals  of  artistic  snobbery,  no  cultured  cosmopoli- 
tans had  ever  been  made  to  suffer  a  more  exquisite 
moral  torture  of  humiliation  than  Musa  had  contrived 
to  inflict  upon  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spatt  in  return  for  their 
hospitality.  Their  sneaped  squirmings  upon  the  sofa 
were  terrible  to  witness.  But  Mr.  Ziegler's  sensibility 
was  apparently  quite  unaffected.  He  continued  to 
smile,  to  drink,  and  to  smoke.  He  seemed  to  be  saying 
to  himself:  "What  does  it  matter  to  me  that  this 
miserable  Frenchman  has  caught  me  in  a  mistake .?  I 
could  eat  him,  and  one  day  I  shall  eat  him.'* 

After  a  little  while  Musa  snatched  out  of  his  right- 
hand  lower  waistcoat  pocket  the  tiny  wooden  "mute" 
which  all  violinists  carry  without  fail  upon  all  occasions 
in  all  their  waistcoats ;  and,  sticking  it  with  marvellous 
rapidity  upon  the  bridge  of  the  violin,  he  entered  upon 
a  pianissimo,  but  still  lively,  episode  of  the  Toccata. 
And  simultaneously  another  melody  faint  and  clear 
could  be  heard  in  the  room.  It  was  Mr.  Ziegler  hum- 
ming "The  Watch  on  the  Rhine"  against  the  Toccata 
of  Debussy.  Thus  did  it  occur  to  Mr.  Ziegler  to  take 
revenge  on  Musa  for  having  attempted  to  humiliate 
him.  Not  unsurprisingly,  Musa  detected  at  once  the 
competitive  air.  He  continued  to  play,  gazing  hard 
at  his  violin  and  apparently  entranced,  but  edging  lit- 


THE  MUTE  225 

tie  by  little  towards  Mr.  Ziegler.  Audrey  desired  either 
to  give  a  cry  or  to  run  out  of  the  room.  She  did 
neither,  being  held  to  inaction  by  the  spell  of  Mr. 
Ziegler's  perfect  unconcern  as,  with  the  beer-glass  lifted 
towards  his  mouth,  he  proceeded  steadily  to  work 
through  "The  Watch  on  the  Rhine,**  while  Musa  lilted 
out  the  delicate  gay  phrases  of  Debussy.  The  en- 
chantment upon  the  whole  room  was  sinister  and  pain- 
ful. Musa  got  closer  to  Mr.  Ziegler,  who  did  not 
blench  nor  cease  from  his  humming.  Then  suddenly 
Musa,  lowering  his  fiddle  and  interrupting  the  scene, 
snatched  the  mute  from  the  bridge  of  the  violin. 

"I  have  put  it  on  the  wrong  instrument,"  he  said 
thickly,  with  a  very  French  intonation,  and  simultane- 
ously he  shoved  the  mute  with  violence  into  the  mouth 
of  Mr.  Ziegler.  In  doing  so,  he  jerked  up  Mr.  Ziegler's 
elbow,  and  the  remains  of  the  beer  flew  up  and  baptised 
Mr.  Ziegler's  face  and  vesture.  Then  he  jammed  the 
violin  into  its  case,  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

"Barhare!  Imbecile!  Sauvage!"  he  muttered  fero- 
ciously on  the  threshold. 

The  enchantment  was  broken.  Everybody  rose,  and 
not  the  least  precipately  the  streaming  Mr.  Ziegler, 
who,  ejecting  the  mute  with  much  spluttering,  and 
pitching  away  his  empty  glass,  sprang  towards  the 
door,  with  justifiable  homicide  in  every  movement. 

"Mr.  Ziegler !"  Audrey  appealed  to  him,  snatching 
at  his  dress-coat  and  sticking  to  it. 

He  turned,  furious,  his  face  still  dripping  the  finest 
Pilsener  beer. 

"If  your  dress-coat  is  not  wiped  instantly,  it  will  bo 
ruined,"  said  Audrey. 

"Ach!  Meiner  Frack!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Ziegler,  for- 
getting his  deep  knowledge  of  English.  His  economic 
instincts  had  been  swiftly  aroused,  and  they  dominated 


226  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

all  the  other  instincts.     "Mei/ner  Frack!    Vill  you  vipe 
it?"     His  glance  was  imploring. 

"Oh!  Mrs.  Spatt  will  attend  to  it,"  said  Audrey 
with  solemnity,  and  walked  out  of  the  room  into  the 
hall.  There  was  not  a  sign  of  Musa;  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  violinist  was  disquieting;  and  yet  it  made 
her  glad — so  much  so  that  she  laughed  aloud.  A  few 
moments  later  Mr.  Ziegler  stalked  forth  from  the  house 
which  he  was  never  to  enter  again,  and  his  silent  scorn 
and  the  grandeur  of  his  displeasure  were  terrific.  He 
entirely  ignored  Audrey,  who  had  nevertheless  been 
the  means  of  saving  his  Frack  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


NOCTURNE 


Soon  afterwards  Audrey',  who  had  put  on  a  hat, 
went  out  with  Mr.  Spatt  to  look  for  Musa.  Not  until 
shortly  before  the  musical  performance  had  the  Spatts 
succeeded  in  persuading  Musa  to  "accept  their  hospi- 
tality for  the  night."  (The  phrase  was  their  own. 
They  were  incapable  of  saying  "Let  us  put  you  up.") 
Meanwhile  his  bag  had  been  left  in  the  hall.  This  bag 
had  now  vanished.  The  parlourmaid,  questioned,  said 
frigidly  that  she  had  not  touched  it  because  she  had 
received  no  orders  to  touch  it.  Musa  himself  must 
therefore  have  removed  it.  With  bag  in  one  hand  and 
fiddle-case  in  the  other,  he  must  have  fled,  relinquishing 
nothing  but  the  mute  in  his  flight.  He  knew  naught 
of  England,  naught  of  Frinton,  and  he  was  the  least 
practical  creature  alive.  Hence  Audrey,  who  was  in 
essence  his  mother,  and  who  knew  Frinton  as  some 
people  know  London,  had  said  that  she  would  go  and 
look  for  him.  Mr.  Spatt,  ever  chivalrous,  had  impul- 
sively offered  to  accompany  her.  He  could  indeed  do 
no  less.  Mrs.  Spatt,  overwhelmed  by  the  tragic  sequel 
to  her  innocent  triumph,  had  retired  to  the  first 
floor. 

The  wind  blew,  and  it  was  very  dark,  as  Audrey  and 
her  squire  passed  along  Third  Avenue  to  the  Front. 
They  did  not  converse — they  were  both  too  shy,  too 
impressed  by  the  peculiarity  of  the  predicament.  They 
simply  peered.     They  peered  everywhere  for  the  truant 

227 


228  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

form  of  Musa  balanced  on  one  side  by  a  bag  and  on 
the  other  by  a  fiddle-case.  From  the  trim  houses,  each 
without  exception  new,  twinkled  discreet  lights,  with 
glimpses  of  surpassingly  correct  domesticity,  and  the 
wind  rustled  loudly  through  the  foliage  of  the  prim 
gardens,  rufflng  them  as  it  might  have  ruffled  the  un- 
willing hair  of  the  daughters  of  an  Archdeacon.  No- 
body was  abroad.  Absurd  thoughts  ran  through 
Audrey's  head.  A  letter  from  Mr.  Foulgcr  had  fol- 
lowed her  to  Birmingham,  and  in  the  letter  Mr.  Foul- 
ger  had  acquainted  her  with  the  fact  that  Great  Mexi- 
can Oil  shares  had  just  risen  to  £2.  3.  0  apiece.  She 
knew  that  she  had  180,000  of  them,  and  now  under 
the  thin  protection  of  Mr.  Spatt  she  tried  to  reckon 
180,000  times  £2.  3.  0.  She  could  not  do  the  sum.  At 
any  rate  she  could  not  be  sure  that  she  did  it  correctly. 
However,  she  was  fairly  well  convinced  beneath  the 
dark  impenetrable  sky  that  the  answer  totalled  over 
£400,000,  that  was,  over  ten  million  francs.  And  the 
ridiculousness  of  a  heiress  who  owned  over  ten  million 
francs  wandering  about  a  place  like  Frinton  with  a 
man  like  Mr.  Spatt,  searching  for  another  man  like 
Musa,  struck  her  as  exceeding  the  bounds  of  the  per- 
missible. She  considered  that  she  ought  to  have  been 
in  a  magnificent  drawing-room  of  her  own  in  Park  Lane 
or  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne,  welcoming  counts, 
princes,  duchesses,  diplomats,  and  self-possessed  geni- 
uses of  finished  manners,  with  witty  phrase  that  dis- 
played familiarity  with  all  that  was  profoundest  and 
most  brilliant  in  European  civilisation.  Life  seemed 
to  be  disappointing  her,  and  assuredly  money  was  not 
the  thing  that  she  had  imagined  it  to  be. 

She  thought: 

"If  this  walking  lamp-post  does  not  say  something 
soon  I  shall  scream." 


NOCTURNE  229 

Mr.  Spatt  said: 

"It  seems  to  be  blowing  up  for  rain." 

She  screamed  in  the  silent  solitude  of  Frinton. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  apologised  quickly.  "I  thought 
I  saw  something  move." 

"One  does,"  faltered  Mr.  Spatt. 

They  were  now  in  the  shopping  street,  where  in  the 
mornings  the  elect  encounter  each  other  on  expeditions 
to  purchase  bridge-markers,  chocolate,  bathing-cos- 
tumes, and  tennis-balls.  It  was  a  black  and  empty 
canyon  through  which  the  wind  raced. 

"He  may  be  down — down  on  the  shore,"  Mr.  Spatt 
timidly  suggested.    He  seemed  to  be  suggesting  suicide. 

They  turned  and  descended  across  the  Greensward 
to  the  shore,  which  was  lined  with  hundreds  of  bathing 
huts,  each  christened  with  a  name,  and  each  deserted, 
for  the  bye-laws  of  the  Frinton  Urban  District  Coun- 
cil judiciously  forbade  that  the  huts  should  be  used  as 
sleeping-chambers.  The  tide  was  very  low.  They 
walked  over  the  wide  flat  sands,  and  came  at  length  to 
the  sea's  roar,  the  white  tumbling  of  foamy  breakers, 
and  the  full  force  of  the  south-east  wind.  Across  the 
invisible  expanse  of  water  could  be  discerned  the  beam 
of  a  lightship.  And  Audrey  was  aware  of  mysterious 
sensations  such  as  she  had  not  had  since  she  inhabited 
Flank  Hall  and  used  to  steal  out  at  nights  to  watch 
the  estuary.  And  she  thought  solemnly:  "Musa  is 
somewhere  near,  existing."  And  then  she  thought: 
"What  a  silly  thought !    Of  course  he  is !" 

"I  see  somebody  coming!"  Mr.  Spatt  burst  out  in  a 
dramatic  whisper.  But  the  precaution  of  whispering 
was  useless,  because  the  next  instant,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, he  loudly  sneezed. 

And  about  two  hundred  j^ards  off  on  the  sands 
Audrey  made  out  a  moving  figure,  which  at  that  dis- 


230  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

tance  did  in  fact  seem  to  have  vague  appendages  that 
might  have  resembled  a  bag  and  a  fiddle-case.  But 
the  atmosphere  of  the  night  was  deceptive,  and  the 
figure  as  it  approached  resolved  itself  into  three 
figures — a  black  one  in  the  middle  of  two  white  ones. 
A  girl's  coarse  laugh  came  down  the  wind.  It  could 
not  conceivably  have  been  the  laugh  of.  any  girl  who 
went  into  the  shopping  street  to  buy  bridge-markers, 
chocolate,  bathing-costumes  or  tennis-balls.  But  it 
might  have  been — it  not  improbably  was — the  laugh 
of  some  girl  whose  mission  was  to  sell  such  things.  The 
trio  meandered  past,  heedless.  Mr.  Spatt  said  no  word, 
but  he  appreciably  winced.  The  black  figure  in  the 
midst  of  the  two  white  ones  was  that  of  his  son  Sieg- 
fried, reputedly  so  fond  of  Debussy.  As  the  group 
receded  and  faded,  a  fragment  of  a  music-hall  song 
floated  away  from  it  into  the  firmament. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  not  much  use  looking  any  longer," 
said  Mr.  Spatt  weakly.  "He — he  may  have  gone  back 
to  the  house.     Let  us  hope  so." 

At  the  chief  garden-gate  of  the  Spatt  residence  they 
came  upon  Miss  Nickall,  trying  to  open  it.  The  sling 
round  her  arm  made  her  unmistakable.  And  Miss 
Nickall  having  alloAvcd  them  to  recover  from  a  pardon- 
able astonishment  at  the  sight  of  her  who  was  supposed 
to  be  exhausted  and  in  bed,  said  cheerfully: 

"I've  found  him,  and  I've  put  him  up  at  the  Excel- 
sior Hotel." 

Mrs.  Spatt  had  related  the  terrible  episode  to  her 
guest,  who  had  wilfully  risen  at  once.  Miss  Nickall 
had  had  luck,  but  Audrey  had  to  admit  that  these 
American  girls  were  stupendously  equal  to  an  emer- 
gency. And  she  hated  the  angelic  Nick  for  having 
found  Musa. 

"We  tried  first  to  find  a  cafe,"  said  Nick.     "But 


NOCTURNE  231 

there  aren't  any  In  this  city.  What  do  you  call  them 
in  England — public-houses,  isn't  it?" 

"No,"  agreed  Mr.  Spatt  in  a  shaking  voice.  "Pub- 
lic-houses are  not  permitted  in  Frinton,  I  am  glad  to 
say."  And  he  began  to  form  an  intention,  subject  to 
Aurora's  approval,  to  withdraw  altogether  from  the 
Suffrage  Movement,  which  appeared  to  him  to  be  get- 
ting out  of  hand. 

As  they  were  all  separating  for  the  night  Audrey 
and  Nick  hesitated  for  a  moment  in  front  of  each 
other,  and  then  they  kissed  with  a  quite  unusual 
effusiveness.  j 

"I  don't  think  I've  ever  really  liked  her,"  said  Audrey 
to  herself. 

What  Nick  said  to  herself  is  lost  to  history. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


IN   THE  GARDEN 


The  next  morning,  after  a  night  spent  chiefly  in 
thought,  Audrey  issued  forth  rather  early.  Indeed 
she  was  probably  the  first  person  afoot  in  the  house 
of  the  Spatts,  the  parlourmaid  entering  the  hall  just 
as  Audrey  had  managed  to  open  the  front-door.  As 
the  parlourmaid  was  obviously  not  yet  in  that  fulness 
and  spruceness  of  attire  which  parlourmaids  affect 
when  performing  their  mission  in  life,  Audrey  decided 
to  offer  no  remark,  explanatory  or  otherwise,  and 
passed  into  the  garden  with  nonchalance  as  though  her 
invariable  habit  when  staying  in  strange  houses  was 
to  get  up  before  anybody  else  and  spy  out  the  whole 
property  while  the  helpless  hosts  were  yet  in  bed  and 
asleep. 

Now  it  was  a  magnificent  morning:  no  wind,  no  cloud, 
and  the  sun  rising  over  the  sea;  not  a  trace  of  the 
previous  evening's  weather.  Audrey  had  not  been  in 
the  leafy  street  more  than  a  moment  when  she  forgot 
that  she  was  tired  and  short  of  sleep,  and  also  very 
worried  by  affairs  both  private  and  public.  Her  body 
responded  to  the  sun,  and  her  mind  also.  She  felt 
almost  magically  healthy,  strong,  and  mettlesome,  and, 
further,  she  began  to  feel  happy ;  she  rather  blamed 
herself  for  this  tendency  to  feel  happy,  calling  herself 
heedless  and  indifferent.  She  did  not  understand  what 
it  is  to  be  young.  She  had  risen  partly  because  of  the 
futility  of  bed,  but  more  because  of  a  desire  to  inspect 

232 


IN  THE  GARDEN  233 

again  her  own  part  of  the  world  after  the  unprece- 
dented absence  from  it. 

Frinton  was  within  the  borders  of  her  own  part  of 
the  world,  and,  though  she  now  regarded  it  with  the 
condescending  eyes  of  a  Parisian  and  Londoner,  she 
found  pleasure  in  looking  upon  it  and  in  recognising 
old  landmarks  and  recent  innovations.  She  saw,  on 
the  Greensward  separating  the  promenade  from  the 
beach,  that  a  rustic  seat  had  been  elaborately  built  by 
the  Council  round  the  great  trunk  of  the  only  tree  in 
Frinton ;  and  she  decided  that  there  had  been  question- 
able changes  since  her  time.  And  in  this  way  she  went 
on.  However,  the  splendour  and  reality  of  the  sun, 
making  such  an  overwhelming  contrast  with  the  insub- 
stantial phenomena  of  the  gloomy  night,  prevented 
undue  cerebral  activity.  She  reflected  that  Frinton 
on  a  dark  night  and  Frinton  on  a  bright  morning  were 
not  like  the  same  place,  and  she  left  it  at  that,  and 
gazed  at  the  fa9ade  of  the  Excelsior  Hotel,  wondering 
for  an  instant  why  she  should  be  interested  in  it,  and 
then  looking  swiftly  away. 

She  had  to  glance  at  all  the  shops,  though  none  of 
them  was  open  except  the  dairy-shop ;  and  in  the  shop- 
ping-street, which  had  a  sunrise  at  one  end  and  the 
railway-station  at  the  other,  she  lit  on  the  new  palatial 
garage. 

"My  car  may  be  in  there,"  she  thought. 

After  the  manner  of  most  car-owners  on  tour,  she 
had  allowed  the  chauffeur  to  disappear  with  the  car 
in  the  evening  where  he  listed,  confident  that  the  next 
morning  he  and  it  would  reappear  cleansed  and  in  good 
running  order. 

The  car  was  in  the  garage,  almost  solitary  on  a 
floor  of  asphalt  under  a  glass  roof.  An  untid}"-  youth, 
with  the  end  of  a  cigarette  clinging  to  his  upper  lip  in 


234  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

a  way  to  suggest  that  it  had  clung  there  throughout 
the  night  and  was  the  last  vestige  of  a  jollification, 
seemed  to  be  dragging  a  length  of  hose  from  a  hydrant 
towards  the  car,  the  while  his  eyes  rested  on  a  large 
notice:     "Smoking  absolutely  prohibited.     By  order." 

Then  from  the  other  extremity  of  the  garage  came 
a  jaunty,  dapper,  quasi-martial  figure,  in  a  new  grey 
uniform,  with  a  peaked  grey  cap,  bright  brown  leg- 
gings, and  bright  brown  boots  to  match, — the  whole 
highly  brushed,  polished,  smooth  and  glittering.  This 
being  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  superb  pair  of  kid 
gloves,  then  a  silver  cigarette-case,  and  then  a  silver 
match-box,  and  he  ignited  a  cigarette — the  unrivalled, 
wondrous  first  cigarette  of  the  day — casting  down  the 
match  with  a  large,  free  gesture.  At  sight  of  him  the 
untidy  youth  grew  more  active. 

"Look  'ere,"  said  the  being  to  the  youth.  "What 
the  'ell  time  did  I  tell  you  to  have  that  car  cleaned  by, 
and  you  not  begun  it !" 

Pointing  to  the  clock,  he  lounged  magnificently  to 
and  fro,  spreading  smoke  around  the  intimidated  and 
now  industrious  youth.  The  next  second  he  caught 
sight  of  Audrey,  and  transformed  himself  instantane- 
ously into  what  she  had  hitherto  imagined  a  chauffeur 
always  was ;  but  in  those  few  moments  she  had  learnt 
that  the  essence  of  a  chauffeur  is  godlike,  and  that  he 
toils  not,  neither  does  he  swab. 

"Good  morning,  madam,"  in  a  soft,  courtly  voice. 

"Good  morning." 

"Were  you  wanting  the  car,  madam?" 

She  was  not,  but  the  suggestion  gave  her  an  idea. 

"Can  we  take  it  as  it  is-f*" 

"Yes,  madam.      I'll  just  look   at  the  petrol  gauge 
.  .  .  But  ...  I  haven't  had  my  breakfast,  madam." 

"What  time  do  you  have  it.^" 


IN  THE  GARDEN  235 

"Well,  madame,  when  you  have  yours." 

"That's  all  right,  then.  You've  got  hours  yet.  I 
want  you  to  take  me  to  Flank  Hall." 

"Flank  Hall,  madam  .'^"  His  tone  expressed  the  fact 
that  his  mind  was  a  blank  as  to  Flank  Hall. 

As  soon  as  Audrey  had  comprehended  that  the  situa- 
tion of  Flank  Hall  was  not  necessarily  known  to  every 
chauffeur  in  England,  and  that  a  stay  of  one  night  in 
Frinton  might  not  have  been  enough  to  familiarize  this 
particular  one  with  the  geography  of  the  entire  dis- 
trict, she  replied  that  she  would  direct  him. 

They  were  held  up  by  a  train  at  the  railway-cross- 
ing, and  a  milk-cart  and  a  young  pedestrian  were  also 
held  up.  When  Audrey  identified  the  pedestrian  she 
wished  momentarily  that  she  had  not  set  out  on  the 
expedition.  Then  she  said  to  herself  that  really  it  did 
not  matter,  and  why  should  she  be  afraid  .  .  .  etc., 
etc.  The  pedestrian  was  Musa.  In  French  they  greeted 
each  other  stiffly,  like  distant  acquaintances,  and  the 
train  thundered  past. 

"I  was  taking  the  air,  simply,  Madame,"  said  Musa, 
with  his  ingenuous  shy  smile. 

"Take  it  in  my  car,"  said  Audrey  with  a  sudden 
resolve.  "In  one  hour  at  the  latest  we  shall  have 
returned." 

She  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to  him  and  a  great  deal 
to  listen  to,  and  there  could  not  possibly  be  any  occa- 
sion equal  to  the  present,  which  was  ideal. 

He  got  in;  the  chauffeur  manoeuvred  to  oust  the 
milk-cart  from  its  rightful  precedence,  the  gates 
opened,  and  the  car  swung  at  gathering  speed  into  the 
well-remembered  road  to  Moze.  And  the  two  passen- 
gers said  nothing  to  each  other  of  the  slightest  import. 
Musa's  escape  from  Paris  was  between  them;  the  un- 
imaginable episode  at  the  Spatts  was  between  them; 


236  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

the  sleepless  night  was  between  them.  (And  had  she 
not  saved  him  by  her  presence  of  mind  from  the  mur- 
derous hand  of  Mr.  Ziegler.?)  They  had  a  million 
things  to  impart.  And  yet  naught  was  uttered  save  a 
few  banalities  about  the  weather  and  about  the  health- 
fulness  of  being  up  early.  They  were  bashful,  con- 
strained, altogether  too  young  and  inexperienced. 
They  wanted  to  behave  in  the  grand,  social,  easeful 
manner  of  a  celebrated  public  performer  and  an  heiress 
worth  ten  million  francs.  And  they  could  only  succeed 
in  being  a  boy  and  a  girl.  The  chauffeur  alone,  at 
from  thirty  to  forty  miles  an  hour,  was  worthy  of  him- 
self and  his  high  vocation.  Both  the  passengers  re- 
gretted that  they  had  left  their  beds.  Happily  the 
car  laughed  at  the  alleged  distance  between  Frinton 
and  Moze.  In  a  few  minutes,  as  it  seemed,  with  but  one 
false  turning,  due  to  the  impetuosity  of  the  chauffeur, 
the  vehicle  drew  up  before  the  gates  of  Flank  Hall. 
Audrey  had  avoided  the  village  of  Moze.  The  passen- 
gers descended. 

"This  is  my  house,"  Audrey  murmured.  " 
The  gates  were  shut  but  not  locked.  They  creaked 
as  Audrey  pushed  against  them.  The  drive  was 
covered  with  a  soft  film  of  green,  as  though  it  were 
gradually  being  entombed  in  the  past.  The  young 
roses,  however,  belonged  emphatically  to  the  present. 
Dewdrops  hung  from  them  like  jewels,  and  their  odour 
filled  the  air.  Audrey  turned  off  the  main  drive  towards 
the  garden-front  of  the  house,  which  had  always  been 
the  aspect  that  she  preferred,  and  at  the  same  moment 
she  saw  the  house  windows  and  the  thrilling  perspective 
of  Mozewater.  One  of  the  windows  was  open.  She  was 
glad,  because  this  proved  that  the  perfect  Aguilar, 
gardener  and  caretaker,  was  after  all  imperfect.  It 
was  his  crusty  perfection  that  had  ever  set  Audrey, 


IN  THE  GARDEN  237 

and  others,  against  Aguilar.  But  he  had  gone  to  bed 
and  forgotten  a  window — and  it  was  the  French  win- 
dow. While,  in  her  suddenly  revived  character  of  a 
harsh  Essex  inhabitant,  she  was  thinking  of  some  sar- 
castic word  to  say  to  Aguilar  about  the  window, 
another  window  slowly  opened  from  within,  and 
Aguilar's  head  became  visible.  Once  more  he  had  ex- 
asperatingly  proved  his  perfection.  He  had  not  gone 
to  bed  and  forgotten  a  window.  But  he  had  risen  with 
exemplary  earliness  to  give  air  to  the  house. 

"  'd  mornin',  miss,"  mumbled  the  unsmiling  Aguilar, 
impassively,  as  though  Audrey  had  never  been  away 
from  Moze. 

"Well,  Aguilar." 

"I  didn't  expect  ye  so  early,  miss." 

"But  how  could  you  be  expecting  me  at  all.'"' 

"Miss  Ingate  come  home  yesterday.  She  said  you 
couldn't  be  far  off,  miss." 

"Not  Miss  .  .  .  Mrs. — MoncreifF,"  said  Audrey 
firmly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,"  Aguilar  responded 
with  absolute  imperturbabihty.  "She  never  said  noth- 
ing about  that." 

And  he  proceeded  mechanically  to  the  next  window. 

The  yard-dog  began  to  bark.  Audrey,  ignoring 
Musa,  went  round  the  shrubbery  towards  the  kennel. 
The  chained  dog  continued  to  bark,  furiousl}',  until 
Audrey  was  within  six  feet  of  him,  and  then  he  crouched 
and  squirmed  and  gave  low  whines  and  his  tail  wagged 
with  extreme  rapidity.  Audrey  bent  down,  trembling 
.  .  .  She  could  scarcely  see  .  .  .  There  was  something 
about  the  green  film  on  the  drive,  about  the  look  of  the 
house,  about  the  sheeted  drawing-room  glimpsed 
through  the  open  window,  about  the  view  of  Mozewater 
.  .  .    !     She  felt  acutely  and  painfully  sorry  for,  and 


238  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

yet  envious  of,  the  young  girl  in  a  plain  blue  frock  who 
used  to  haunt  the  house  and  the  garden,  and  who  had 
somehow  made  the  house  and  the  garden  holy  forever 
more  by  her  unhappiness  and  her  longings  .  .  . 
Audrey  was  crying  .  .  .  She  heard  a  step  and  stood 
upright.     It  was  Musa's  step. 

"I  have  never  seen  you  so  exquisite,"  said  Musa  in  a 
murmur  subdued  and  yet  enthusiastic.  All  his  facul- 
ties seemed  to  be  dwelling  reflectively  upon  her  with 
passionate  appreciation. 

They  had  at  last  begun  to  talk,  really, — he  in 
French,  and  she  partly  in  French  and  partly  in  Eng- 
lish. It  was  her  tears,  or  perhaps  her  gesture  in  trying 
to  master  them,  that  had  loosed  their  tongues.  The 
ancient  dog  was  forgotten,  and  could  not  understand 
why.  Audrey  was  excusably  startled  by  Musa's  words 
and  tone,  and  by  the  sudden  change  in  his  attitude. 
She  thought  that  his  personal  distinction  at  the  mo- 
ment was  different  from  and  superior  to  any  other  in 
her  experience.  She  had  a  comfortable  feeling  of  con- 
descension towards  Nick  and  towards  Jane  Foley.  And 
at  the  same  time  she  blamed  Musa,  perceiving  that  as 
usual  he  was  behaving  like  a  child  who  cannot  grasp 
the  great  fact  that  life  is  very  serious. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "That's  all  very  fine,  that  is.  You 
pretend  this,  that,  and  the  other.  But  why  are  you 
here?  Why  aren't  you  at  work  in  Paris?  You've  got 
the  chance  of  a  lifetime,  and  instead  of  staying  at  home 
and  practising  hard  and  preparing  yourself,  you  come 
gadding  over  to  England  simply  because  there's  a  bit 
of  money  in  your  pocket !" 

She  was  very  young,  and  in   the   splendour  of  the 
magnificent   morning   she    looked   the    emblem    of   sim-. 
plicity;  but  in  her  heart  she  was  his  mother,  his  sole 
fount  of  wisdom  and  energy  and  shrewdness. 


IN  THE  GARDEN  239 

Pain  showed  in  his  sensitive  features,  and  then  ap- 
peal, and'  then  a  hot  determination. 

"I  came  because  I  could  not  work,"  he  said. 

"Because  you  couldn't  work.^  Why  couldn't  3'ou 
work.P"     There  was  no  yielding  in  her  hard  voice. 

"I  don't  know!  I  don't  know!  I  suppose  it  is  be- 
cause 3'ou  are  not  there,  because  you  have  made  j^ourself 
necessary  to  me;  or,"  he  corrected  quickl}"^,  "because  / 
have  made  you  necessary  to  myself.  Oh !  I  can  prac- 
tise for  so  many  hours  per  day.  But  it  is  useless.  It 
is  not  authentic  practice.  I  think  not  of  the  music. 
It  is  as  if  some  other  person  was  playing,  with  my  arm, 
on  my  violin.  I  am  not  there.  I  am  with  you,  where 
3^ou  are.  It  is  the  same  day  after  day,  every  day, 
every  day.  I  am  done  for.  I  am  convinced  that  I  am 
done  for.  These  concerts  will  infallibly  be  my  ruin, 
and  I  shall  be  shamed  before  all  Paris." 

"And  did  you  come  to  England  to  tell  me  this?" 

"Yes." 

She  was  relieved,  for  she  had  thought  of  another 
explanation  of  his  escapade,  and  had  that  explanation 
proved  to  be  the  true  one,  she  was  very  ready  to  make 
unpleasantness  to  the  best  of  her  ability.  Nevertheless, 
though  relieved  in  one  direction,  she  was  gravely 
worried  in  another.  She  had  undertaken  the  job  of 
setting  Musa  grandiosely  on  his  artistic  career,  and 
the  difficulties  of  it  were  growing  more  and  more  com- 
plex and  redoubtable. 

She  said: 

"But  you  seemed  so  jolly  when  you  arrived  last 
night.  Nobody  would  have  guessed  you  had  a  care  in 
the  world." 

"I  had  not,"  he  replied  eagerly,  "as  soon  as  I  saw 
you.  The  surprise  of  seeing  you — it  was  that  .  .  . 
And  you  left  Paris  without  saying  good-bye!     Why 


MO  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

did  you  leave  Paris  without  saying  good-bye?  Never 
since  the  moment  when  I  learnt  that  you  had  gone  have 
I  had  the  soul  to  practise.  My  violin  became  a  wooden 
box;  my  fingers,  too,  were  of  wood." 

He  stopped.     The  dog  sniffed  round. 

Audrey  was  melting  in  bliss.  She  could  feel  herself 
dissolving.  Her  pleasure  was  terrible.  It  was  true 
that  she  had  left  Paris  without  saying  good-bye  to 
Musa.  She  had  done  it  on  purpose.  Why?  She  did 
not  know.  Perhaps  out  of  naughtiness,  perhaps  .  .  . 
She  was  aware  that  she  could  be  hard,  like  her  father. 
But  she  was  glad,  intensely  glad,  that  she  had  left 
Paris  so,  because  the  result  had  been  this  avowal.  She, 
Audrey,  little  Audrey,  scarcely  yet  convinced  that  she 
was  grown  up,  was  necessary  to  the  genius  whom  all 
the  Quarter  worshipped !  Miss  Thompkins  was  not 
necessary  to  him.  Miss  Nickall  was  not  necessary  to 
him,  though  both  had  helped  to  provide  the  means  to 
keep  him  alive.  She  herself  alone  was  necessary  to 
him.  And  she  had  not  guessed  it.  She  had  not  even 
hoped  for  it.  The  effect  of  her  personality  upon  Musa 
was  mysterious — she  did  not  affect  to  understand  it — 
but  it  was  obviously  real  and  it  was  vital.  If  any- 
thing in  the  world  could  surpass  the  pleasure,  her  pride 
surpassed  it.  All  tears  were  forgotten.  She  was  the 
proudest  young  woman  in  the  world ;  and  she  was  the 
wisest,  and  the  most  harassed,  too.  But  the  anxieties 
were  delicious  to  her. 

"I  am  essential  to  him,"  she  thought  ecstatically. 
"I  stand  between  him  and  disaster.  When  he  has  suc- 
ceeded his  success  will  be  my  work  and  nobody  else's, 
I  have  a  mission.  I  must  live  for  it  ...  If  any  one 
had  told  me  a  year  ago  that  a  great  French  genius 
would  be  absolutely  dependent  upon  me,  and  that  I 
meant  for  him  all  the  difference  between  failure  and 


IN  THE  GARDEN  241 

triumph,  I  should  have  laughed  .  .  .  And  yet!  ..." 
She  looked  at  him  surreptitiously.  "He's  an  angel. 
But  he's  also  a  baby."  The  feelings  of  motherhood 
were  as  naught  compared  to  hers. 

Then  she  remarked  harshly,  icily: 

"Well,  I  shall  be  much  obliged  if  you  will  go  back  to 
Paris  at  once — to-day.  Somebody  must  have  a  little 
sense." 

Just  at  this  point  Aguilar  interrupted.  He  came 
slouching  round  the  corner  of  the  clipped  bushes,  un- 
tidy, shabby,  implacable,  with  some  set  purpose  in 
his  hard  blue  eyes.  She  could  have  annihilated  him 
with  satisfaction,  but  the  fellow  was  indestructible  as 
well  as  implacable. 

"Could  I  have  a  word  with  ye,  madam?"  he  mumbled, 
putting  on  his  well-known  air  of  chicane. 

With  the  unexplained  Musa  close  by  her  she  could 
not  answer:  "Wait  a  little.  I'm  engaged."  She  had 
to  be  careful.  She  had  to  make  out  especially  that 
she  and  the  young  man  were  up  to  nothing  in  particu- 
lar, nothing  that  had  the  slightest  importance. 

"What  is  it,  Aguilar?"  she  questioned,  inimically. 

"It's  down  here,"  said  Aguilar,  who  recked  not  of 
the  implications  of  a  tone.  And  by  the  mere  force  of 
his  glance  he  drew  his  mistress  away,  out  of  sight  of 
Musa  and  the  dog. 

"Is  that  your  motor-car  at  the  gates,  madam?"  he 
demanded  gloomily  and  confidentially,  his  gaze  now 
fixed  on  the  ground  or  on  his  patched  boots. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  Audrey.  "Why,  what's  the 
matter?" 

"That's  all  right  then,"  said  he.  "But  I  thought  it 
might  belong  to  another  person,  and  I  had  to  make 
sure.  Now  if  ye'll  just  step  along  a  bit  further,  I've 
a  little  thing  as  I  want  to  point  out  to  ye,  madam. 


2^2  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

It's  my  duty  to  point  it  out,  let  others  say  what  they 
will." 

He  walked  ahead  doggedly,  and  Audrey  crossly  came 
after,  until  the}'  arrived  nearly  at  the  end  of  the  hedge 
which,  separating  the  upper  from  the  lower  garden, 
hid  from  those  immediately  behind  it  all  view  of  the 
estuary.  Here,  still  sheltered  by  the  hedge,  he  stopped 
and  Audrey  stopped,  and  Aguilar  absently  plucked  up 
a  young  plantain  from  the  turf  and  dropped  it  into 
his  pocket. 

"There's  been  a  man  a-hanging  round  this  place 
since  yesterday  mornin',"  said  Aguilar  intimately.  "I 
call  him  a  suspicious  character — at  least,  I  did,  till 
last  night.  He  ain't  slept  in  the  village,  that  I  do 
know,  but  he's  about  again  this  morning." 

"Well,"  said  Audrey  with  impatience.  "Why  don't 
you  tell  Inspector  Keeble.''  Or  have  you  quarrelled 
with  Inspector  Keeble  again.?" 

"It's  not  that  as  would  ha'  stopped  me  from  ac- 
quainting Inspector  Keeble  with  the  circumstances  if 
I  thought  it  my  duty  so  to  do,"  replied  Aguilar.  "But 
the  fact  is  I  saw  the  chap  talking  to  Inspector  Keeble 
yesterday  evening.  He  don't  know  as  I  saw  him.  It 
was  that  as  made  me  think.  Now  is  he  a  suspicious 
character  or  ain't  he?  Of  course  Keeble's  a  rare 
simple-minded  'un,  as  we  all  know." 

"And  what  do  you  want  me  to  do.'^" 

"I  thought  you  might  like  to  have  a  look  at  him 
3'^eself,  madam.  And  if  you'll  just  peep  round  the  end 
of  this  hedge  casual-like,  ye'll  see  him  walking  across 
the  salting  from  Lousey  Hard.  He's  a-comin'  this 
way.     Casual-like  now, — and  he  won't  see  ye." 

Audrey  had  to  obey.  She  peeped  casual-like,  and 
she  did  in  fact  see  a  man  on  the  salting,  and  this  man 
was  getting  nearer.      She  could  see  him  very  plainly 


IN  THE  GARDEN  243 

in  the  brilliant  clearness  of  the  summer  morning.  After 
the  shortest  instant  of  hesitation  she  recognised  him 
beyond  any  doubt.  It  was  the  detective  who  had  been 
so  plenteously  baptised  by  Susan  Foley  in  the  area  of 
the  house  at  Paget  Gardens.  Aguilar  looked  at  Audrey, 
and  Audrey  annoyed  herself  somewhat  by  blushing. 
However,  an  agreeable  elation  quickly  overcame  the 
blush. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


ENCOUNTER 


"Good  morning,"  Audrey  cried,  very  gaily,  to  the 
«till  advancing  detective,  who,  after  the  slightest  hesi- 
tation in  the  world,  responded  gaily: 

"Good  morning." 

The  man's  accent  struck  her.  She  said  to  herself, 
with  amusement. 

"He's  Irish !" 

Audrey  had  left  the  astonished  but  dispassionate 
gardener  at  the  hedge,  and  was  now  emerging  from  the 
scanty  and  dishevelled  plantation  close  to  the  boundary 
wall  of  the  estate.  She  supposed  that  the  police  must 
have  been  on  her  track  and  on.  the  track  of  Jane  Foley, 
and  that  by  some  mysterious  skill  they  had  hunted  her 
down.  But  she  did  not  care.  She  was  not  rn  the  least 
afraid.  The  sudden  vision  of  a  jail  did  not  affright 
her.  On  the  contrary  her  chief  sensation  was  one  of 
joyous  self-confidence,  which  sensation  had  been  pro- 
duced in  her  by  the  remarks  and  the  attitude  of  Musa. 
She  had  always  known  that  she  was  both  shy  and 
adventurous,  and  that  the  two  qualities  were  mutually 
contradictory ;  but  now  it  appeared  to  her  that  difri- 
dence  had  been  destroyed,  and  that  that  change  which 
she  had  ever  longed  for  in  her  constitution  had  at  least 
really  come  to  pass. 

"You  don't  seem  very  surprised  to  see  me,"  said 
Audrey. 

"Well,  madame,"  said  the  detective.  "I'm  not  paid 
to  be  surprised — in  my  business." 

244 


ENCOUNTER  245 

He  had  raised  his  hat.  He  was  standing  on  the 
dyke,  and  from  that  height  he  looked  somewhat  down 
upon  Audrey  leaning  against  the  wall.  The  water- 
course and  the  strip  of  eternally  emerald-green  grass 
separated  them.  Though  neither  tall  nor  particularly 
handsome,  he  was  a  personable  man,  with  a  ready  smile 
and  alert,  agile  movements.  Audrey  was  too  far  ofT 
to  judge  of  his  eyes,  but  she  was  quite  sure  that  they 
twinkled.  The  contrast  between  this  smart  cheerful 
fellow  and  the  half-drowned  victim  in  the  area  of  the 
house  in  Paget  Gardens  was  quite  acute. 

"Now  I've  a  good  mind  to  hold  a  meeting  for  your 
benefit,"  said  Audrey,  striving  to  recall  the  proper 
phrases  of  propaganda  which  she  had  heard  in  the 
proper  quarters  in  London  during  her  brief  connection 
with  the  cause.  However,  she  could  not  recall  them. 
"But  there's  no  need  to,"  she  added.  "A  gentleman 
of  your  intelligence  must  be  of  our  way  of  tliinking." 

"About  what.?" 

"About  the  vote,  of  course.  And  so  j^our  conduct 
is  all  the  more  shocking." 

"Why!"  he  exclaimed,  laughing.  "If  it  comes  to 
that,  your  own  sex  is  against  you." 

Audrey  had  heard  this  argument  before,  and  it  had 
the  same  effect  on  her  as  on  most  other  stalwarts  of 
the  new  political  creed.  It  annoyed  her,  because  there 
was  something  in  it. 

"The  vast  majority  of  women  are  with  us,"  said 
she. 

"My  wife  isn't." 

"But  your  wife  isn't  the  vast  majority  of  women," 
Audrey  protested. 

"Oh,  yes,  she  is,"  said  the  detective,  "so  far  as  I'm 
concerned.  Every  wife  is,  so  far  as  her  husband  is 
concei-ned.     Sure,  you  ought  to  know  that !"     In  his 


S46  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Irish  way  he  doubled  the  "r"  of  the  word  "sure," 
and  somehow  this  trick  made  Audrey  Hke  him  still  more. 
"My  wife  believes,"  he  concluded,  "that  woman's  sphere 
is  the  home." 

("His  wife  is  stout,"  Audrey  decided  within  herself, 
on  no  grounds  whatever.  "If  she  wasn't,  she  couldn't 
be  a  vast  majority.") 

Aloud  she  said: 

"Weil,  then,  why  can't  you  leave  them  alone  in  their 
sphere,  instead  of  worrying  them  and  spying  on  them 
down  areas?" 

"D'ye  mean  at  Paget  Gardens  .f"' 

"Of  course." 

"Oh!"  he  laughed.  "That  wasn't  professional— if 
you'll  excuse  me  being  so  frank.  That  was  just  due 
to  human  admiration.  It's  not  illegal  to  admire  a 
young  woman,  I  suppose,  even  if  she  is  a  suffragette." 

"What  young  woman  are  you  talking  about.'"' 

"Miss  Susan  Foley,  of  course.  I  won't  tell  you  what 
I  think  of  her,  in  spite  of  all  she  did,  because  I've 
learnt  that  it's  a  mistake  to  praise  one  woman  to  an- 
other. But  I  don't  mind  admitting  that  her  going  off 
to  the  north  has  made  me  life  a  blank.  If  I'd  thought 
she'd  go,  I  should  never  have  reported  the  affair  at  the 
Yard.  But  I  was  annoyed,  and  I'm  rather  hasty."  He 
paused,  and  ended  reflectively:  "I  committed  follies 
to  get  a  word  with  the  young  lady,  and  I  didn't  get  it, 
but  I'd  do  the  same  again." 

"And  you  a  married  man !"  Audrey  burst  out, 
startled,  and  diverted,  at  the  explanation,  but  at  the 
same  time  outraged  by  a  confession  so  cynical. 

The  detective  pulled  a  silky  moustache. 

"When  a  wife  is  very  strongly  convinced  that  her 
sphere  is  the  home,"  he  retorted  slowly  and  seriously, 
"you're  tempted  at  times  to  let  her  have  the  sphere 


ENCOUNTER  247 

all  to  herself.  That's  the  universal  experience  of  mar- 
ried men,  and  ye  may  believe  me,  miss — madam." 

Audrey  said: 

"And  now  INIiss  Foley's  gone  north,  you've  decided 
to  come  and  admire  me  in  my  home !" 

"So  it  is  your  home !"  murmured  the  detective  with 
an  uncontrolled  quickness  which  wakened  Audrey's  old 
suspicions  afresh, — and  which  created  a  new  suspicion, 
the  suspicion  that  the  fellow  was  simply  playing  with 
her.  "I  assure  you  I  came  here  to  recover;  I'd  heard 
it  was  the  finest  climate  in  England." 

"Recover?" 

"Yes,  from  fire-extinguishers.  D'ye  know  I  coughed 
for  twenty- four  hours  after  that  reception.''  .  .  .  And 
you  should  have  seen  my  clothes !  The  doctor  says 
my  lungs  may  never  get  over  it  .  .  .  That's  what 
comes  of  admiration." 

"It's  what  comes  of  behaving  as  no  married  man 
ought  to  behave." 

"Did  I  say  I  was  married?"  asked  the  detective  with 
an  ingenuous  air.  "Well,  I  may  be.  But  I  daresay 
I'm  only  married  just  about  as  much  as  you  are  your- 
self, madam." 

Upon  this  remark  he  raised  his  hat  and  departed 
along  the  grassy  summit  of  the  sea-wall. 

Audrey  flushed  for  the  second  time  that  morning, 
and  more  strikingly  than  before.  She  was  extremely 
discontented  with,  and  ashamed  of,  herself,  for  she  had 
meant  to  be  the  equal  of  the  detective,  and  she  had 
not  been.  It  was  blazingly  clear  that  he  had  indeed 
played  with  her, — or  as  she  put  it  in  her  own  mind: 
"He  just  stuffed  me  up  all  through." 

She  tried  to  think  logically.  Had  he  been  pursuing 
the  motor-car  all  the  way  from  Birmingham?  Ob- 
viously he  had  not,  since  according  to  Aguilar  he  had 


248  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

been  in  the  vicinity  of  Moze  since  the  previous  morn^ 
ing.  Hence  he  did  not  know  that  Audrey  was  involved 
in  the  Blue  City  affair,  and  he  did  not  know  that  Jane 
Foley  was  at  Frinton.  How  he  had  learnt  that  Audrey 
belonged  to  Moze,  and  why  and  what  he  had  come  to 
investigate  at  Moze,  she  could  not  guess.  Nor  did  these 
problems  appear  to  her  to  have  an  importance  at  all 
equal  to  the  importance  of  hiding  from  the  detective 
that  she  had  been  staying  at  Frinton.  If  he  followed 
her  to  Frinton  he  would  inevitably  discover  that  Jane 
Foley  was  at  Frinton,  and  the  sequel  would  be  more 
imprisonment  for  Jane.  Therefore  Audrey  must  not 
return  to  Frinton.  Having  by  a  masterly  process  of 
ratiocination  reached  this  conclusion,  she  began  to 
think  rather  better  of  herself,  and  ceased  blushing. 

"Aguilar,"  she  demanded  excitedly,  having  gone 
back  through  the  plantation.  "Did  Miss  Ingate  hap- 
pen to  say  where  I  was  staying  last  night .?" 

"No,  madam." 

"I  must  run  into  the  house  and  write  a  note  for 
her,  and  you  must  take  it  down  instantly."  In  her 
mind  she  framed  the  note,  which  was  to  condemn  JMiss 
Ingate  to  the  torture  of  complete  and  everlasting 
silence  about  the  episode  at  the  Blue  City  and  the 
flight  eastwards. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

FLIGHT 

"Fast,  madam,  did  you  say?"  asked  the  chauffeur, 
bending  his  head  back  from  the  wheel  as  the  car  left 
the  gates  of  Flank  Hall. 

"Fast." 

"The  Colchester  road?" 

"Yes." 

"It's  really  just  as  quick  to  take  the  Frinton  road 
for  Colchester — it's  so  much  straighter." 

"No,  no,  no!  On  no  account.  Don't  go  near 
Frinton." 

Audrey  leaned  back  in  the  car.  And  as  speed  in- 
creased the  magnificence  of  the  morning  again  had  its 
effect  on  her.  The  adventure  pleased  her  far  more  than 
the  perils  of  it,  either  for  herself  or  for  other  people, 
frightened  her.  She  knew  that  she  was  doing  a  very 
strange  thing  in  thus  leaving  the  Spatts  and  her  lug- 
gage without  a  word  of  explanation  before  breakfast; 
but  she  did  not  care.  She  knew  that  for  some  reason 
which  she  did  not  comprehend  the  police  were  after 
her,  as  they  had  been  after  nearly  all  the  great  ones 
of  the  movement;  but  she  did  not  care.  She  was  alive 
in  the  rushing  car  amid  the  magnificence  of  the  morn- 
ing. Musa  sat  next  to  her.  She  had  more  or  less  in- 
completely  explained  the  situation  to  him, — it  was  not 
necessary  to  tell  everything  to  a  boy  who  depended 
upon  you  absolutely  for  his  highest  welfare, — such 
boys  must  accept,  thankfully,  what  they  received.  And 
■»  249 


^r.O  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Musa  had  indeed  done  so.  He  appeared  to  be  quite 
happy  and  without  anxieties.  Ah!  That  was  the 
worst  of  Musa, — his  irresponsibihty,  his  short  mem- 
cry  for  trouble.  He  had  wanted  to  be  with  her,  and 
he  was  with  her,  and  he  cared  for  nothing  else.  He 
had  no  interest  in  what  might  happen  next.  He 
yielded  himself  utterly  to  the  enjoyment  of  her  pres- 
ence and  of  the  magnificent  morning. 

And  yet  Musa,  whom  Audrey  considered  that  she 
understood  as  profoundly  as  any  mother  had  ever  un- 
derstood  any   child, — even  Musa   could   surprise. 

He  said,  without  any  preparation: 

"I  calculate  that  I  shall  have  3,040  francs  in  hand 
after  the  concerts,  assuming  that  I  receive  only  the 
minimum.  That  is,  after  paying  the  expenses  of  my 
living." 

"But  do  you  know  how  much  it  costs  you  to  live.'^" 
Audrey  demanded,  with  careless  superiority. 

"Assuredly.  I  write  all  my  payments  down  in  a  lit- 
tle book.     I  have  done  so  since  some  years." 

"Every  sou?" 

"Yes.      Every  sou." 

"But  do  you  save,  Musa.''" 

"Save!"  he  repeated  the  word  ingenuously.  "Till 
now  to  save  has  been  impossible  for  me.  But  I  have 
always  kept  in  hand  one  month's  subsistence.  I  could 
not  do  more.  Now  I  shall  save.  You  reproached  me 
with  having  spent  money  in  order  to  come  to  see  you 
in  England.  But  I  regarded  the  money  so  spent  as 
part  of  the  finance  of  the  concerts.  Without  seeing 
you  I  could  not  practise.  Without  practise  I  could 
not  play.  Without  playing  I  could  not  earn  money. 
Therefore  I  spent  money  in  order  to  get  money.  Such, 
madame,  was  the  commercial  side.  What  a  beautiful 
lawn  for  tennis  you  have  in  your  garden !" 


FLIGHT  251 

Audrey  was  more  than  surprised,  she  was  staggered 
by  the  revelation  of  the  attitude  of  genius  towards 
money.  She  had  not  suspected  it.  Then  she  remem- 
bered the  simple  natural  tone  in  which  Musa  had  once 
told  her  that  both  Tommy  and  Nick  contributed  to 
his  income.  She  ought  to  have  comprehended  from 
that  avowal  more  than  she,  in  fact,  had  comprehended. 
And  now  the  first  hopes  of  worldly  success  were 
strongly  developing  that  unsuspected  trait  in  the  young 
man's  character.  Audrey  was  aware  of  a  great  fear. 
Could  he  -be  a  genius,  after  all.''  Was  it  conceivable 
that  an  authentic  musical  genius  should  enter  up  daily 
in  a  little  book  every  sou  he  spent.'* 

A  rapid,  spitting,  explosive  sound,  close  behind  the 
car  and  a  little  to  the  right,  took  her  mind  away  from 
Musa  and  back  to  the  adventure.  She  looked  round, 
half  expecting  what  she  should  see, — and  she  saw  it, 
namely,  the  detective  on  a  motor-cycle.  It  was  an 
"Indian"  machine  and  painted  red.  And  as  she  looked 
the  car,  after  taking  a  corner,  got  into  a  straight  bit 
of  the  splendid  road  and  the  motor-bicycle  dropped 
away  from  it. 

"Can't  you  shake  off  that  motor-bicycle  thing.'"' 
Audrey  rather  superciliously  asked  the  chauffeur. 

Having  first  looked  at  his  mirror,  the  chauffeur,  who, 
like  a  horse,  could  see  in  two  directions  at  once,  gazed 
cautiously  at  the  road  in  front  and  at  the  motor-bicycle 
behind,  simultaneously. 

"I  doubt  it,  madam,"  he  said.  And  yet  his  tone 
and  glance  expressed  deep  scorn  of  the  motor-bicycle. 
"As  a  general  rule  you  can't." 

"I  should  have  thought  you  could  beat  a  little  thing 
like  that,"  said  Audrey. 

"Them  things  can  do  sixty  when  they've  a  mind  to," 


252  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

said  the  chauffeur,  with  finality,  and  gave  all  his  atten- 
tion to  the  road. 

At  intervals  he  looked  at  his  mirror.  The  motor- 
bicycle  had  vanished  into  the  past,  and  as  it  failed  to 
reappear  he  gradually  grew  confident  and  disdainful. 
But  just  as  the  car  was  going  down  the  short  hill  into 
the  outskirts  of  Colchester  the  motor-bicycle  came  into 
view  once  more. 

"Where  to,  madam.'"'  inquired  the  chauffeur. 

"This  is  Colchester,  isn't  it?"  she  demanded  neiv- 
ously,  though  she  knew  perfectly  well  that  it  was  Col- 
chester. 

"Yes,  madam." 

"Straight  through!     Straight  through!" 

"The  London  road.?" 

"Yes.  The  London  road,"  she  agreed.  London  was, 
of  course,  the  only  possible  destination. 

"But  breakfast,  madam.'"' 

"Oh !  The  usual  thing,"  said  Audrey.  "You'll  have 
yours  when  I  have  mine." 

"But  we  shall  run  out  of  petrol,  madam." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Audrey,  sublimely. 

The  chauffeur,  with  characteristic  skill,  arranged 
that  the  car  should  run  out  of  petrol  precisely  in  front 
of  the  best  hotel  in  Chelmsford,  which  was  about  half- 
way to  London.  The  motor-bicycle  had  not  been  seen 
for  several  miles.  But  scarcely  had  they  resumed  the 
journey,  by  the  Epping  road,  when  it  came  agair 
into  view — in  front  of  them.  How  had  the  fellow 
guessed  that  they  would  take  the  longer  Epping  road 
instead  of  the  shorter  Romford  road.? 

"When  shall  we  be  arriving  in  Frinton.?"  Musa  in- 
quired, beatific. 

"We  shan't  be  arriving  in  Frinton  any  more,"  said 
Audrey.     "We  must  go  straight  to  London." 


FLIGHT  253 

"It  is  like  a  dream,"  Musa  murmured,  as  it  were,  in 
ecstasy.  Then  his  features  changed  and  he  almost 
screamed :  "But  my  violin !  My  violin  !  We  must  go 
back  for  it." 

"Violin!"  said  Audrey.  "That's  nothing!  I've  even 
come  without  gloves."    And  she  had. 

She  reassured  Musa  as  to  the  violin,  and  the  chauf- 
feur as  to  the  abandoned  Gladstone  bag  containing  the 
chauffeur's  personal  effects,  and  herself  as  to  many 
things.  An  hour  and  twent}'-  minutes  later  the  car, 
with  three  people  in  it,  thickly  dusted  even  to  the  eye- 
brows, drew  up  in  the  courtyard  of  Charing  Cross  rail- 
way station,  and  the  motor-cycle  was  visible,  its  glaring 
red  somewhat  paled,  in  the  Strand  outside.  The  time 
was   ten  fifteen. 

"We  shall  take  the  11  o'clock  boat-train  for  Paris," 
she  said  to  Musa. 

"You  also?" 

She  nodded.  He  was  in  heaven.  He  could  even  do 
without  his  violin. 

"How  nice  it  is  not  to  be  bothered  with  luggage," 
she  said. 

The  chauffeur  was  pacified  with  money,  of  which 
Audrey  had  a  sufficiency. 

And  all  the  time  Audrey  kept  saying  to  herself: 

"I'm  not  going  to  Paris  to  please  Musa,  so  don't  let 
him  think  it !  I'm  only  going  so  as  to  put  the  detective 
off  and  keep  Jane  Foley  out  of  his  clutches,  because  if 
I  stay  in  London  he'll  be  bound  to  find  everything  out." 

While  Musa  kept  watch  for  the  detective  at  the  door 
of  the  telegraph  office  Audrey  telegraphed,  as  lacon- 
ically as  possible,  to  Frinton  concerning  clothes  and 
the  violin,  and  then  they  descended  to  subterranean 
marble  chambers  in  order  to  get  rid  of  dust,  and  they 


254  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

came  up  to  earth  again,  each  out  of  a  separate  cellar, 
renewed.  And,  lastly,  Audrey  slipped  into  the  Strand 
and  bought  a  pair  of  gloves,  and  thereafter  felt  her- 
self to  be  completely  equipped  against  the  world's  gaze. 


CHAPTER  XXX 


AEIADNE 


A  FEW  days  later  an  automobile — not  Audrey's  but 
a  large  limousine — bumped,  with  slow  and  soft  dignity, 
across  the  railway  lines  which  diversify  the  quays  of 
Boulogne  harbour  and,  having  hooted  in  a  peculiar 
manner,  came  to  a  stop  opposite  nothing  in  particular. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Mr.  Gilman,  reaching  to  open 
the  door.     "You  can  see  her  masthead  light." 

It  was  getting  dark.  Behind,  over  the  station,  a 
very  faint  flush  lightened  the  west,  and  in  front,  across 
the  water,  and  reflected  in  the  water,  the  thousand 
lamps  of  the  town  rose  in  tiers  to  the  lofty  church 
which  stood  out  a  dark  mass  against  the  summer  sky. 
On  the  quays  the  forms  of  men  moved  vaguely  among 
crates  and  packages,  and  on  the  water,  tugs  and  boats 
flitted  about,  puffing,  or  with  the  plash  of  oars,  or 
with  no  sound  whatever.  And  from  the  distance  ar- 
rived the  reverberation  of  electric  trams  running  their 
courses  in  the  maze  of  the  town. 

Madame  Piriac  and  Audrey  descended,  after  Mr. 
Gilman,  from  the  car  and  Mr.  Gilman  turned  off^  the 
electric  light  in  the  interior  and  shut  the  door. 

"Do  not  trouble  about  the  luggage,  I  beg  you,"  said 
Mr.  Gilman,  breathing,  as  usual,  rather  noticeably. 
''Bon  soir,  Leroux.  Don't  forget  to  meet  the  nine 
thirty-five."  This  last  to  the  white-clad  chauffeur,  who 
saluted  sharply. 

At  the  same  moment  two  sailors  appeared  over  the 

255 


^56  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

edge  of  the  quay,  and  a  Maltese-cross  of  light  burst 
into  radiance  at  the  end  of  a  sloping  gangway,  whose 
summit  was  just  perched  on  "the  solid  masonry  of  the 
port.  The  sailors  were  clothed  in  blue,  with  white  caps, 
and  on  their  breasts  they  bore  the  white-embroidered 
sign:    "Ariadne,  R.  T.  Y.  C." 

"Look  lively,  lads,  with  the  luggage,"  said  Mr. 
Gilman. 

"Yes,  sir." 

Then  another  figure  appeared  under  the  Maltese- 
cross.  It  was  clad  in  white  ducks,  with  a  blue  reefer 
ornamented  in  gold,  and  a  yachting  cap  crowned  in 
white:  a  stoutish  and  middle-aged  figure,  much  like 
Mr.  Gilman  himself  in  bearing  and  costume,  except 
that  Mr.  Gilman  had  no  gold  on  his  jacket. 

"Well,  skipper!"  greeted  Mr.  Gilman,  jauntily  and 
spryly.  In  one  moment,  in  one  second,  Mr.  Gilman 
had  grown  at  least  twenty  years  younger. 

"Captain  Wyatt,"  he  presented  the  skipper  to  the 
ladies.  "And  this  is  Mr.  Price,  my  secretary,  and 
Doctor  Cromarty,"  as  two  youths,  clothed  exactly  to 
match  Mr.  Gilman,  followed  the  skipper  up  the  steep' 
incline  of  the  gangway. 

And  now  Audrey  could  see  the  Ariadne  lying  below, 
for  it  was  only  just  past  low  water  and  the  tide  was 
scarcely  making.  At  the  next  berth  higher  up,  with 
lights  gleaming  at  her  innumerable  portholes  and  two 
cranes  hard  at  work  producing  a  mighty  racket  on  her, 
lay  a  Channel  steamer,  which,  by  comparison  with  the 
yacht,  loomed  enormous,  like  an  Atlantic  liner.  Indeed, 
the  yacht  seemed  a  very  little  and  a  very  lowly  and  a 
very  flimsy  flotation  on  the  dark  water,  and  her  illu- 
minated deck-house  was  no  better  than  a  toy.  On  the 
other  hand,  her  two  masts  rose  out  of  the  deep  high 


ARIADNE  257 

overhead  and  had  a  certain  impressiveness,  though  not 
quite  enough. 

Audrey  thought: 

"Is  this  what  we're  going  on?  I  thought  it  was  a 
big  yacht."    And  she  had  a  qualm. 

And  then  a  bell  rang  twice,  extremely  sweet  and 
mellow,  somewhere  on  the  yacht.  And  Audrey  was 
touched  by  the  beauty  of  its  tone. 

"Two  bells.  Nine  o'clock,"  said  Mr.  Oilman.  "Will 
you  come  aboard.?  I'll  show  you  the  way."  He  tripped 
down  the  gangway  like  a  boy.  Behind  could  be  heard 
the  sailors  giving  one  another  directions  about  the 
true  method  of  handling  luggage. 

Audrey  had  met  Madame  Piriac  by  sheer  hazard  in 
a  corset-shop  in  the  Rue  de  la  Chaussee  d'Antin.  The 
fugitive  from  justice  had  been  obliged,  in  the  matter  of 
wardrobe,  to  begin  life  again  on  her  arrival  trunkiess 
in  Paris,  and  the  business  of  doing  so  was  not  disagree- 
able. Madame  Piriac  had  greeted  her  with  most  af- 
fectionate warmth.  One  of  her  first  suggestions  had 
been  that  Audrey  should  accompany  her  on  a  short 
yachting  trip  projected  by  Mr.  Gilman.  She  had  said 
that  thouffh  the  excellent  Gilman  was  her  uncle,  and 
her  adored  uncle,  he  was  not  her  real  uncle,  and  that 
therefore,  of  course,  she  was  incapable  of  going  un- 
accompanied, though  she  would  hate  to  disappoint  the 
dear  man.  As  for  Monsieur  Piriac,  the  destiny  of 
France  was  in  his  hands  and,  the  moment  being  some- 
what critical,  he  would  not  quit  the  Ministry  of  For- 
eign Affairs  without  leaving  a  fixed  telegraphic  ad- 
dress. 

On  the  next  day  Mr.  Gilman  and  Madame  Piriac  had 
called  on  Audrey  at  the  Hotel  du  Danube,  and  the  in- 
vitation became  formal.  It  was  pressing  and  flatter- 
ing.    Why  refuse  it?     Mr.  Gilman  was  obviously  pre- 


258  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

pared  to  be  her  slave.  She  accepted,  with  enthusiasm. 
And  she  said  to  herself  that  in  doing  so  she  was  put- 
ting 3^et  another  spoke  in  the  wheel  of  the  British  po- 
lice. Immediately  afterwards  she  learnt  that  jMusa 
also  had  been  asked.  Madame  Piriac  informed  her,  in 
reply  to  a  sort  of  protest,  that  Musa's  first  concert 
was  postponed  by  the  concert-agency  until  the  au- 
tumn. "I  never  heard  of  that!"  Audrey  had  cried. 
"And  why  should  you  have  heard  of  it?  Have  you  not 
been  in  England.'"'  Madame  Piriac  had  answered,  a 
little  surprised  at  Audrey's  tone.  Whereupon  Audrey 
had  said  naught.  The  chief  point  was  that  Musa  could 
take  a  holiday  without  detriment  to  his  career.  More- 
over, Mr.  Gilman,  who  possessed  everytliing,  possessed 
a  marvellous  violin,  which  he  would  put  at  the  disposal 
of  Musa  on  the  yacht  if  Musa's  own  violin  had  not  been 
found  in  the  meantime.  The  official  story  was  that 
Musa's  violin  had  been  mislaid  or  lost  on  the  Metro- 
politain  Railway,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  been  to 
England  somehow  did  not  transpire  at  all.  - 

Mr.  Gilman  had  gone  forward  in  advance  to  make 
sure  that  his  yacht  was  in  a  state  worthy  to  receive  two 
such  ladies,  and  he  had  insisted  on  meeting  them  in 
his  car  at  Abbeville  on  the  way  to  Boulogne.  He  had 
not  insisted  on  meeting  Musa  similarly.  He  was  a 
peculiar  and  in  some  respects  a  stiff-necked  man.  He 
had  decided,  in  his  own  mind,  that  he  would  have  the 
two  women  to  himself  in  the  car,  and  so  indeed  it  fell 
out.  Nevertheless  his  attitude  to  Musa,  and  Madame 
Piriac's  attitude  to  Musa,  and  everybody's  attitude  to 
Musa,  had  shown  that  the  mere  prospect  of  star-con- 
certs in  a  first-class  hall  had  very  quickly  transformed 
Musa  into  a  genuine  Parisian  lion.  He  was  positively 
courted.  His  presence  on  the  yacht  was  deemed  an 
honour,  and  that  was  why  Mr.  Gilman  had  asked  him. 


ARIADNE  259 

Audrey  both  resented  the  remarkable  change  and  was 
proud  of  it — as  a  mother  perhaps  naturally  would  do 
and  be.  The  admitted  genius  was  to  arrive  the  next 
morning. 

On  boarding  the  Ariadne  in  the  wake  of  Mr.  Gilman 
and  Madame  Piriac,  the  first  thing  that  impressed  Au- 
drey was  the  long  gangway  itself.  It  was  made  of  tliin 
resilient  steel,  and  the  handrails  were  of  soft  white 
rope,  almost  like  silk,  and  finished  off  with  fancy  knots ; 
and  at  the  beginning  of  the  gangway,  on  the  dirty 
quay,  lay  a  beautiful  mat  bearing  the  name  of  the  god- 
dess, while  at  the  end,  on  tlie  pale,  smooth  deck,  was 
another  similar  mat.  The  obvious  costliness  of  that 
gangway  and  those  superlative  mats  made  Audrey  feel 
poor,  in  spite  of  her  ten  million  francs.  And  the  next 
thing  that  impressed  her  was  that  immediately  she  got 
down  on  deck  the  yacht,  in  a  very  mysterious  manner, 
had  grown  larger,  and  much  larger.  At  the  forward 
extremity  of  the  deck  certain  blue  figures  lounging 
about  seemed  to  be  quite  a  long  way  off,  indeed  in  an- 
other world.  Here  and  there  on  the  deck  were  circles 
of  yellow  or  white  rope,  coiled  as  precisely  and  per- 
fectly as  Audrey  could  coil  her  own  hair.  Mr.  Gil- 
man  led  them  to  the  door  of  the  deck-house  and  they 
gazed  within.  The  sight  of  the  interior  drew  out  of 
the  ravished  Audrey  an  ecstatic  exclamation :  "What 
a  darling!"  And  at  the  words  she  saw  that  Mr.  Gil- 
man,  for  all  his  assumed  nonchalant  sprjmess,  almost 
trembled  with  pleasure.  The  deck-house  was  a  draw- 
ing-room whose  walls  were  of  carved  and  inlaid  wood. 
Orange-shaded  electric  bulbs  hung  on  short,  silk  cords 
from  the  ceiling,  and  flowers  in  sconces  showed  bril- 
liantly between  the  windows,  which  were  draped  with 
curtains  of  silk  matching  the  thick  carpet.  Several 
lounge-chairs  and  a  table  of  bird's-eye  maple  completed 


260  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

the  place,  and  over  the  table  were  scattered  newspapers 
and  illustrated  weeklies.  Everything,  except  the  lit- 
erature, was  somewhat  diminished  in  size,  but  the  small- 
ness  of  the  scale  only  intensified  the  pleasure  derived 
from  the  spectacle. 

Then  they  went  "downstairs,"  as  Audrey  said;  but 
Mr.  Gilman  corrected  her  and  said  "below,"  whereupon 
Audrey  retorted  that  she  should  call  it  the  "ground- 
floor,"  and  Mr.  Gilman  laughed  as  she  had  never  heard 
a  man  of  his  age  laugh.  The  sight  of  the  ground-floor 
still  further  increased  Audrey's  notion  of  the  dimen- 
sions of  the  yacht,  whose  corridors  and  compartments 
appeared  to  stretch  away  endlessly  in  two  directions. 
At  the  foot  of  the  curving  staircase  Mr.  Gilman,  pull- 
ing aside  a  curtain,  announced:  "This  is  the  saloon," 
When  she  heard  the  word  Audrey  expected  a  poky 
cubicle,  but  found  a  vast  drawing-room  with  more 
books  than  she  had  ever  seen  in  any  other  drawing- 
room,  many  pictures,  an  open  piano,  with  music  on  it ; 
sofas  in  every  quarter,  and  about  a  thousand  -cupboards 
and  drawers,  crch  with  a  silver  knob  or  handle.  Above 
all  was  a  dome  of  multi-coloured  glass,  and  exactly 
beneath  the  dome  a  table  set  for  supper,  with  the  fin- 
est napery,  cutlery  and  crystal.  The  apartment  was 
dazzlingly  lighted,  and  yet  not  a  single  lamp  could  be 
detected  in  the  act  of  illumination.  A  real  parlour- 
maid suddenly  appeared  at  the  far  end  of  the  room, 
and  behind  her  two  stewards  in  gilt-buttoned  white  Eton 
jackets  and  black  trousers.  Mr.  Gilman,  with  serious- 
ness, bade  the  parlourmaid  take  charge  of  the  ladies 
and  show  them  the  sleeping-cabins. 

"Choose  any  cabins  you  like,"  said  he,  as  Madame 
Piriac  and  Audrey  rustled  off. 

There  might  have  been  hundreds  of  sleeping-cabins. 
And  there  did,  in  fact,  appear  to  be  quite  a  number  of 


ARIADNE  261 

them,  to  say  nothing  of  two  bathrooms.  They  in- 
spected all  of  them  save  one,  which  was  locked.  In 
an  awed  voice  the  parlourmaid  said :  "That  is  the 
owner's  cabin."  At  another  door  she  said,  in  a  differ- 
ent, disdainful  voice:  "That  only  leads  to  the  galley 
and  the  crew's  quarters."  Audrey  wondered  what  a 
galley  could  be,  and  the  mystery  of  that  name,  and  the 
mystery  of  the  two  closed  doors,  merely  made  the 
whole  yacht  perfect.  The  sleeping-cabins  surpassed 
all  else, — they  were  so  compact,  so  complex,  so  utterly 
complete.  No  large  bedchamber,  within  Audrey's 
knowledge,  held  so  much  apparatus,  and  offered  so 
much  comfort  and  so  much  wardrobe  room  as  even  the 
least  of  these  cabins.  It  was  impossible,  to  be  sure,  that 
in  one's  amused  researches  one  had  not  missed  a  cup- 
board ingeniously  disguised  somewhere.  And  the  multi- 
plicity of  mirrors,  and  the  message  of  the  laconic  mono- 
syllable "Hot"  on  silver  taps,  and  the  discretion  of  the 
lighting,  all  indicated  that  the  architect  and  creator 
of  these  marvellous  microcosms  had  "understood."  The 
cosy  virtue  of  littleness,  and  the  entire  absurdity  of 
space  for  the  sake  of  space,  were  strikingly  proved, 
and  the  demonstration  amounted,  in  Audrey's  mind,  to 
a  new  and  delicious  discovery. 

The  largest  of  the  cabins  had  two  berths  at  right 
angles  to  one  another,  each  a  lovely  little  bed  with  a 
running  screen  of  cashmere.  Having  admired  it  once, 
they  returned  to  it. 

"Do  you  know,  my  dear,"  said  Madame  Piriac,  in 
French,  "I  have  an  idea.  You  will  tell  me  if  it  is  not 
good.  ...  If  we  shared  this  cabin  .  .  . !  In  this  so 
*  curious  machine  one  feels  a  satisfaction,  somehow,  in 
being  very  near  the  one  to  the  other.  The  ceiling  is 
so  low.   .   .   .  That  gives   you  sensations- — human   sen- 


262  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

sations.    ...  I     know     not     if     you     experience     the 


same.   .   .   ." 


"Oh!  Let's!"  Audrey  exclaimed,  impulsively  in 
Enghsh.     "Do  let's!" 

When  the  parlourmaid  had  gone,  and  before  the  lug- 
gage had  come  down,  Madame  Piriac  caught  Audrey 
to  her  and  kissed  her  fervently  on  both  cheeks,  amid 
the  ghnting  confusion  of  polished  woods  and  draperies 
and  silver  mountings  and  bevelled  glass. 

"I  am  so  content  that  you  came,  my  little  one !" 
murmured  Madame  Piriac. 

The  next  minute  the  cabin  and  the  corridor  outside 
were  full  of  open  timnks  and  bags,  over  which  bent  the 
forms  of  Madame  Piriac,  Audrey  and  the  parlourmaid. 
And  all  the  drawers  were  gaping,  and  the  doors  of  all 
the  cupboards  swinging,  and  the  narrow  beds  were  hid- 
den under  piles  of  variegated  garments.  And  while 
they  were  engaged  in  the  breathless  business  of  in- 
stalling themselves  in  the  celestial  domain,  strange  new 
thoughts  flitted  about  like  mice  in  Audrey's  head.  She 
felt  as  though  she  were  in  a  refuge  from  the  world,  and 
as  though  her  conscience  was  being  narcotised.  In 
that  cabin,  firm  as  solid  land  and  yet  floating  on  the 
water,  with  Mr.  Gilman  at  hand  her  absolute  slave, — in 
that  cabin  the  propaganda  of  women's  suffrage  pre- 
sented itself  as  a  very  odd  and  very  remote  phenome- 
non, a  phenomenon  scarcely  real.  She  had  positively 
everything  she  wanted  without  fighting  for  it.  The 
lion's  share  of  life  was  hers.  Comfort  and  luxury 
were  desirable  and  beautiful  things,  not  to  be  cast 
aside  nor  scorned.  Madame  Piriac  was  a  wise  woman 
and  a  good  woman.  She  was  a  happy  woman.  .  .  . 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  ugliness  in  sitting  on  Joy- 
wheels  and  being  chased  by  policemen.  True,  as  she 
had  heard,  a  crew  of  nineteen  human  beings  was  neces- 


ARIADNE  263 

sary  to  the  existence  of  Mr.  Gilman  and  his  guests  on 
board  the  yacht.  Well,  what  then.''  The  nineteen 
were  undoubtedly  well  treated  and  in  clover.  And  the 
world  was  the  world ;  you  had  to  take  it  as  you  found 
it.  .  .  .  And  then  in  her  mind  she  had  a  glimpse  of 
the  blissful  face  of  Jane  Foley — blissfiil  in  a  different 
way  from  any  other  face  she  had  met  in  all  her  life. 
Disconcerting,  this  glimpse,  for  an  instant,  but  only 
for  an  instant!  She,  Audrey,  was  blissful,  too.  The 
intense  desire  for  joy  and  pleasure  surged  up  in  her. 
.  .  .  The  bell  which  she  had  previously  heard  struck 
three ;  its  delicate  note  vibrated  long  through  the  yacht, 
unwilling  to  expire.  Half-past  nine,  and  supper  and 
the  chivalry  of  Mr.  Gilman  waiting  for  them  in  the 
elegance  of  the  saloon! 

As  the  two  women  approached  the  portiere  which 
screened  the  forward  entrance  to  the  saloon,  they  heard 
Mr.  Gilman  say,  in  a  weary  and  resigned  voice: 

"Well,  I  suppose  there's  nothing  better  than  a 
whisky  and  soda." 

And  the  vivacious  reply  of  a  steward: 

"Very  good,  sir." 

The  owner  was  lounging  in  a  corner,  with  a  gloomy, 
bored  look  on  his  face.  But  as  soon  as  the  portiere 
stirred  and  he  saw  the  smiles  of  Madame  Piriac  and 
Audrey  upon  him,  his  whole  demeanour  changed  in  an 
instant.  He  sprang  up,  laughed,  furtively  smoothed 
his  waistcoat,  and  managed  to  convey  the  general  idea 
that  he  had  a  keen  interest  in  life,  and  that  the  keenest 
part  of  that  interest  was  due  to  a  profound  instinctive 
desire  to  serve  these  two  beautiful  benefactors  of  man- 
kind,— the  idea  apparently  being  that  the  charaiing 
creatures  had  conferred  a  favour  on  the  human  race 
by  consenting  to  exist.  He  cooed  round  ^^hem,  he  of- 
fered them  cushions,  he  inquired  after  their  physical 


264  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

condition,  he  expressed  his  fear  lest  the  cabins  had 
not  contained  every  convenience  that  caprice  might 
expect.  He  was  excited ;  surely  he  was  happy !  Au- 
drey persuaded  herself  that  this  must,  after  all,  be  his 
true  normal  condition  while  aboard  the  yacht,  and  that 
the  ennui  visible  on  his  features  a  moment  earlier  could 
only  have  been  transient  and  accidental. 

"I  am  sure  the  piano  is  as  wonderful  as  all  else  on 
board,"  said  Madame  Piriac. 

"Do  play!"  he  entreated.  "I  love  to  hear  music 
here.     My  secretary  plays  for  me  when  I  am  alone." 

"I,  who  do  not  adore  music !"  Madame  Piriac  pro- 
tested against  the  invitation.  But  she  sat  down  on  the 
clamped  music  stool  and  began  a  waltz. 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Gilman,  dropping  into  a  seat  by 
Audrey.     "I  wish  I  danced!" 

"But  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  don't,"  said 
Audrey,  with  fascination.  She  felt  that  she  could  fas- 
cinate him,  and  that  it  was  her  duty  to  fascinate  him. 

Mr.  Gilman  responded  to  the  challenge. 

"I  suppose  I  do,"  he  said,  modestly.  "We  must  have 
a  dance  on  deck  one  night.  I'll  tell  my  secretary  to  get 
the   gramophone   into   order.      I   have   a   pretty   good 


one." 


"How  lovely!"  Audrey  agreed.  "I  do  think  the 
Adriadne's  the  most  heavenly  thing,  Mr.  Gilman!  I'd 
no  idea  what  a  yacht  was !  I  hope  you'll  tell  me  the 
proper  names  for  all  the  various  parts — you  know 
what  I  mean.  I  hate  to  use  the  wrong  words.  It's 
not  polite  on  a  yacht,  is  it?" 

His  smile  was  entranced. 

"You  and  I  will  go  round  by  ourselves  to-morrow 
morning,  Mrs.  Moncreiff,"  he  said. 

Just  then  the  steward  appeared  with  the  whisky 
and  soda,  but  Mr.  Gilman  dismissed  him  with  a  sharp 


ARIADNE  265 

gesture,  and  he  vanished  back  into  the  unexplored  parts 
of  the  vessel.  The  implication  was  that  the  society  of 
Audrey  made  whisky  and  soda  a  superfluity  for  Mr. 
Gilman.  Although  she  was  so  young,  he  treated  her 
with  exactly  the  same  deference  as  he  lavished  on 
Madame  Piinac,  indeed  with  perhaps  a  little  more.  If 
^ladame  Piriac  was  for  him  the  incarnation  of  sweet- 
ness and  balm  and  majesty,  so  also  was  Audrey,  and 
Audrey  had  the  advantage  of  novelty.  She  was  grow- 
ing, moralljj  every  minute.  The  confession  of  Musa 
had  filled  her  with  a  good  notion  of  herself.  The  im- 
pulsive flattery  of  Madame  Piriac  in  the  joint  cabin, 
and  now  the  sincere,  grave  homage  of  Mr.  Gilman, 
caused  her  to  brim  over  with  consciousness  that  she 
was  at  last  somebody. 

An  automobile  hooted  on  the  quay,  and  at  the  dis- 
turbing sound  Madame  Piriac  ceased  to  play  and 
swung  round  on  the  stool. 

"That — that  must  be  our  other  lady-guest,"  said 
Mr.  Gilman,  who  had  developed  nervousness ;  his  cheeks 
flushed  darkly. 

"Ah?"  cautiously  smiled  Madame  Piriac,  who  was 
plainly  taken  aback. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Gilman.  "Miss  Thompkins.  Be- 
fore I  knew  for  certain  that  Mrs.  Moncreiff*  could 
come  with  you,  Hortense,  I  asked  Miss  Thompkins  if 
she  would  care  to  come.  I  only  got  her  answer  this 
morning — it  was  delayed.  I  meant  to  tell  you.  .  .  . 
You  are  a  friend  of  Miss  Thompkins,  aren't  you?"  He 
turned  to  Audrey. 

Audrey  replied  gaily  that  she  knew  Tommy  very 
well. 

"I'd  better  go  up,"  said  Mr.  Gilman,  and  he  de- 
parted, and  his  back,  though  a  nervous  back,  seemed 
to  be  defying  Madame  Piriac  and  Audrey  to  question 


266  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

in  the  slightest  degree  bis  absolute  right  to  choose  his 
own  guests  on  his  own  yacht. 

"Strange  man !"  muttered  Madame  Piriac.  It  was  a 
confidence  to  Audrey,  who  eagerly  accepted  it  as  such. 
"Imagine  him  inviting  Mees  Thompkins,  without  a 
word  to  us,  without  a  word !  But,  you  know,  my  dear 
uncle  was  always  bizarre,  mysterious.  Yet — is  he  mys- 
terious, or  is  he  ingenuous.'"' 

"But  how  did  he  come  to  know  Miss  Thompkins.'"' 
Audrey  demanded. 

"Ah!  You  have  not  heard  that.?*  Miss  Thompkins 
gave  a — a  musical  tea  in  her  studio,  to  celebrate  these 
concerts  which  are  to  occur.  Musa  asked  the  Foas  to 
come.  They  consented.  It  was  understood  they  should 
bring  friends.  Thus  I  went  also,  and  Monsieur  Gilman 
being  at  my  orders  that  afternoon,  he  went  too.  Never 
have  I  seen  so  strange  a  multitude !  But  it  was  amus- 
ing. And  all  Paris  has  begun  to  talk  of  Musa.  Miss 
Thompkins  and  my  uncle  became  friends  on  the  in- 
stant. I  assume  that  it  was  her  eyes.  Also  those 
Americans  have  vivacity,  if  not  always  distinction.  Do 
you  not  think  so.^"' 

"Oh,  yes !  And  do  you  mean  to  say  that  on  the 
strength  of  that  he  asked  her  to  go  yachting.'^" 

"Well,  he  had  called  several  times." 

"Aren't  you  surprised  she  accepted.'*"  asked  Audrey. 

"No,"  said  Madame  Piriac.  "It  is  another  code, 
that  is  all.     It  is  a  surprise,  but  she  will  be  amusing." 

"I'm  sure  she  will,"  Audrey  concurred.  "I'm  fright- 
fully fond  of  her  myself," 

They  glanced  at  each  other  very  intimately,  like 
long^established  allies  who  fear  an  aggression — and  are 
ready  for  it. 

Then  steps  were  heard.    Miss  Thompkins  entered. 

"Well,"    drawled   Miss   Thompkins,   gazing  first   at 


ARIADNE  267 

Audrey  and  then  at  Madame  Piriac.     "Of  all  the  love- 
liest shocks Say,  Musa " 

Behind  her  stood  Musa.     It  appeared  that  he  had 
been  able  to  get  away  by  the  same  train  as  Tommy. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 


THE    NOSTEUM 


The  hemisphere  of  heaven  was  drenched  In  moon- 
light, and — rare  happening  either  on  British  earth  or 
on  the  waters  surrounding  it,  in  mid-summer- — the 
night  was  warm.  In  the  midst  of  the  ghttering  sea 
the  yacht  moved  without  the  appearance  of  motion; 
only  by  leaning  over  the  rail  and  watching  the  bubbles 
glide  away  from  her  could  you  detect  her  progress. 
There  were  no  waves,  no  ripples,  nothing  but  a  scarcely 
perceptible  swell.  The  gentle  breeze,  unnoticeable  on 
deck,  was  abaft;  all  the  sails  had  been  lowered  and 
stowed  except  the  large  square  sail  bent  on  a  yard  to 
the  mainmast  and  never  used  except  with  such  a  wind. 
The  Ariadne  had  a  strong  flood-tide  under  her,  and 
her  200  h.  p.  twin  motors  were  stopped.  Hence  there 
was  no  tremor  in  the  ship  and  no  odour  of  paraffin  in 
the  nostrils  of  those  who  chanced  to  wander  aft  of  the 
engine-room.  The  deck-awning  had  been  rolled  up  to 
the  centre,  and  at  the  four  corners  of  its  frame  had 
been  hung  four  temporary  electric  lights  within  Chinese 
lanterns.  A  radiance  ascended  from  the  saloon  sky- 
light; the  windows  of  the  deck-house  blazed  as  usual, 
but  the  deck-house  was  empty ;  a  very  subdued  glow 
indicated  where  the  binnacle  was.  And,  answering  these 
signs  of  existence,  could  be  distinguished  the  red  and 
green  lights  of  steamers,  the  firm  rays  of  lighthouses, 
and  the  red  or  white  warnings  of  gas-buoys  run  by 
clockwork.  ' 

268 


THE  NOSTRUM  269 

The  figures  of  men  and  women — the  women  In  pale 
gowns,  the  men  in  blue  and  white — lounged  or  strolled 
on  the  spotless  deck  which  unseen  hands  swabbed  and 
stoned  every  morning  at  6  o'clock ;  and  among  these 
figures  passed  the  figure  of  a  steward  with  a  salver, 
staying  them  with  flagons,  comforting  them  with  the 
finest  exotic  fruit.  Occasionally  the  huge  square  sail 
gave  an  idle  flap.  "Get  that  lead  out,  'Orace,"  com- 
manded a  grim  voice  from  the  wheel.  A  splash  fol- 
lowed, as  a  man  straddled  himself  over  the  starboard 
bow,  swung  a  weighted  line  to  and  fro  and  threw  it 
from  him.  "Four."  Another  splash.  "Four."  An- 
other splash.  "Four."  Another  splash.  "Three-half." 
Another  splash.  "Three-half."  Another  splash. 
"Three."  Another  splash.  "Two-half."  Another 
splash.  "Three."  Another  splash.  "Five.  "That'll 
do,  'Orace,"  came  the  voice  from  the  wheel.  Then  an 
entranced  silence. 

The  scene  had  the  air  of  being  ideal.  And  yet  it 
was  not.  Something  lacked.  That  something  was 
the  owner.  The  owner  lay  indisposed  in  the  sacred 
owner's  cabin.  And  this  was  a  pity  because  a  dance 
had  been  planned  for  that  night.  It  might  have  taken 
place  without  the  owner,  but  the  strains  of  the  gramo- 
phone and  especially  the  shuffling  of  feet  on  the  deck 
would  have  disturbed  him.  True,  he  had  sent  up  word 
by  Doctor  Cromarty  that  he  was  not  to  be  consid- 
ered. But  the  doctor  had  delivered  the  message  with- 
out any  conviction,  and  the  unanimous  decision  was 
that  the  owner  must,  at  all  costs,  be  considered. 

It  was  Ostend,  on  top  of  the  owner's  original  offer 
to  Audrey,  that  had  brought  about  the  suggestion  of  a 
dance.  They  had  coasted  up  round  Gris-Nez  from 
Boulogne  to  Ostend,  and  had  reached  the  harbour  there 
barely  in  time  to  escape  from  the  worst  of  a  tempest 


2T0  THE  LION'S  SH.\RE 

that  had  already  begun  to  produce  in  the  minds  of  sun- 
dry passengers  a  grave  doubt  whether  vachtinff  was, 
after  all,  the  most  delightful  of  pursuits.     Some  miles 
before  the  white  dome  of  the  Ivursaal  was  sicrhted  the 
process  of  moral  decadence  had  set  in,  and  passengers 
were  lying  freely  to  each  other,  and  boastfully  Ivinff, 
just  as  though  somebody  had  been  accusing  them  of 
some  dreadful  crime  of  cowardice  or  bad  breedino-  in- 
stead of  merely  inquiring  about  the  existence  of  physi- 
cal symptoms  over  which  they  admittedly  had  no  con- 
trol whatever.     The  security  of  a  harbour,  with  a  rail- 
way station  not  fifty  yards  from  the  yacht's  bowsprit, 
had  restored  them,  by  dint  of  calming  secret  fears,  to 
their  customary  condition  of  righteousness  and  recti- 
tude.     Several  days  of  gusty  rainstorms  had  elapsed 
at  Ostend,  and  the  passengers  had  had  the  opportunity 
to  study  the  method  of  managing  a  yacht,  and  to  visit 
the  neighbourhood.     The  one  was  as  wondrous  as  the 
other.      They   found  letters   and  British  and  French 
newspapers  on  their  plates  at  breakfast.    And  the  first 
object  they  had  seen  on  the  quay,  and  the  last  object 
they  saw  there,  was  the  identical  large  limousine  which 
they  had  left  on  the  quay  at  Boulogne.     It  would  have 
taken  them  to  Ghent  but  for  the  o^Tier's  powerful  ob- 
jection to  their  eating  any  meal  off  the  yacht.     Seem- 
ingly he  had  a  great  and  sincere  horror  of  local  viands 
and  particularly  of  local  water.     He  was  their  slave; 
they  might  demand  anything  from  him;  he  was  the 
very  symbol  of  hospitality  and  chivalry,  but  somehow 
they  could  not  compass  a  meal  away  from  the  yacht. 
Similarly  he  would  have  them  leave  the  Kursaal  not 
later  than  10  o'clock,  when  the  evening  had  not  verit- 
ably begun.     They  did  not  clearly  understand  by  what 
means  he  imposed  his  will,  but  he  imposed  it. 

The  departure  from  Ostend  was  accomplished  after 


THE  X0STRT3I  9.71 

the  glass  had  bogiin  to  rise,  but  before  it  had  finlshfed 
rising,  and  there  were  apprehensions  in  the  saloon  and 
out  of  it,  when  the  spectacle  of  the  open  sea,  and  the 
feel  of  it  under  the  feet,  showed  that,  as  of  old,  water 
was  still  un<»table.  The  process  of  moral  decadence 
would  have  set  in  once  more  but  for  the  prudence  and 
presence  of  mind  of  Audrey,  who  had  laid  in  a  large 
stock  of  the  specific  which  had  been  of  such  notable 
use  to  herself  and  Miss  Ingate  on  previous  occasions. 
Praising  openly  its  virtues,  confessing  frankly  her 
own  weakness  and  preaching  persuasively  her  own 
faith,  she  had  distributed  the  nostnum,  and  in  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  had  established  a  justifiable  confi- 
dence, Mr,  Gilman  alone  would  not  partake,  and  in- 
deed she  had  hardly  dared  to  offer  the  thing  to  so 
experienced  a  sailor.  The  day  had  favoured  her.  The 
sea  grew  steadily  more  tranquil,  and  after  skirting  the 
Belgian  and  French  coasts  for  some  little  distance  the 
Ariadne,  under  orders,  had  turned  her  nose  boldly 
northward  for  the  estuary  of  the  Thames,  The  Ariadne 
was  now  in  the  midst  of  that  very  complicated  puzzle 
of  deeps  and  shallows.  The  passengers,  in  fact,  knew 
that  they  were  in  the  region  of  the  North  Edinburgh, 
but  what  or  where  the  North  Edinburgh  was  they  had 
onlyt  the  vaguest  idea.  The  blot  on  the  voyage  had 
been  the  indisposition  of  Mr.  Gilman,  who  had  taken 
to  his  berth  early,  and  who  saw  nobody  but  his  doctor, 
through  whom  he  benignantly  administered  the  world 
of  the  yacht.  Doctor  Cromarty  had  a  face  which  im- 
parted nothing  and  yet  implied  everything.  He  said 
less  and  meant  more  than  even  the  average  pure- 
blooded  Scotchman.  It  was  imparted  that  Mr.  Gilman 
had  a  chronic  complaint.  The  implications  were  vast 
and  baffling. 

"We  shall  dance  after  all,"   said  Miss  Thompkins, 


272  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

bending  with  a  mysterious  gesture  over  Audrey,  who 
reclined  in  a  deck-chair  near  the  companion  leading 
to  the  deserted  engine-room.  Miss  Thompkins  was 
dressed  in  lacy  white,  with  a  string  of  many-tinted 
beads  round  her  slim  neck.  Her  tawny  hair  was  ar- 
ranged in  a  large  fluffiness,  and  the  ensemble  showed  to 
a  surprised  Audrey  what  Miss  Thompkins  could  ac- 
complish when  she  deemed  the  occasion  to  be  worthy 
of  an  effort. 

"Shall  we?  What  makes  you  think  so,  dear?"  ab- 
sently asked  Audrey,  in  whom  the  scene  had  induced 
profound  reflections  upon  life  and  the  universe. 

"He'll  come  up  on  deck,"  said  Miss  Thompkins,  dis- 
closing her  teeth  in  an  inscrutable  smile  that  the 
moonbeams  made  more  strange  than  it  actually  was. 
"Like  to  know  how  I  know?  Sure  you'd  like  to  know, 
Mrs.  Simplicity?"  Her  beads  rattled  above  Audrey's 
insignificant  upturned  nose.  "Isn't  a  yacht  the  queer- 
est little  self-contained  state  you  ever  visited?  It's  as 
full  of  party  politics  as  Massachusetts ;  and  that's 
some.  Well,  I  didn't  use  all  my  medicine  you  gave  me. 
Didn't  need  it.  So  I've  shared  it  with  him.  I  got  the 
empty  packet  with  all  the  instructions  on  it,  and  I  put 
two  of  my  tablets  in  it,  and  if  he  hasn't  swallowed  them 
by  this  time  my  name  isn't  Anne  Tuckett  Thompkins." 

"But  you  don't  mean  he's  been " 

"Audrey,  you're  making  a  noise  like  a  goose.  Course 
I  do." 

"But  how  did  you  manage  to " 

"I  gave  them  to  Mr.  Price,  with  instructions  to 
leave  them  by  the — er — bedside.  Mr.  Price  is  a  friend. 
I  hope  I've  made  that  plain  these  days  to  everybody, 
including  Mr.  Gilman.  Mr.  Price  is  a  good  sample  of 
what  painters  are  liable  to  come  to  after  they've  found 
out  they  don't  care  for  the  smell  of  oil-tubes.     I  knew 


THE  NOSTRUM  273 

him  when  he  always  said  'Puvis*  instead  of  *Puvis  de 
Chavannes.*  He's  cured  now.  If  I  hadn't  happened 
to  know  he'd  be  on  board  I  shouldn't  have  dared  to 
come.     He's  my  lifebuoy." 

"But  I  assure  you,  Tommy,  Mr.  Oilman  refused  the 
stuff  from  me.     He  did." 

"Oh!  Dove!  Wood-pigeon!  Of  course  he  refused 
it.  He  was  bound  to.  Owner  of  a  two-hundred-and- 
fifty-ton  yacht  taking  a  remedy  for  sea-sickness  in  pub- 
lic on  the  two-hundred-and-fifty-ton  yacht !  The  very 
idea  makes  you  shiver.  But  he'll  take  it  down  there. 
And  he  won't  ask  any  questions.  And  he'll  hide  it  from 
the  doctor.  And  he'll  pretend,  and  he'll  expect  every- 
body else  to  pretend,  that  he's  never  been  within  a  mile 
of  the  stuff." 

"Tommy,  I  don't  believe  you." 

"And  he's  a  lovely  man,  all  the  same." 

"Tommy,  I  don't  believe  you." 

"Yes,  you  do.  You'd  like  not  to,  but  you  can't  help 
it.  I  sometimes  do  bruise  people  badly  in  their  organ 
of  illusions-about-human-nature,  but  it  is  fun,  after  all, 
isn't  it?" 

"What?" 

"Getting  down  to  the  facts." 

Accompanied  by  the  tattoo  of  her  necklace.  Miss 
Thompkins  moved  away  in  the  direction  of  Madame 
Piriac,  who  was  engaged  with  Musa. 

"Admit  I'm  rather  brilliant  to-night,"  she  threw  over 
her  shoulder. 

The  dice  seem  to  be  always  loaded  in  favour  of  the 
Misses  Thompkins  of  society.  Less  than  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  later  Doctor  Cromarty,  showing  his  head 
just  above  the  level  of  the  deck,  called  out: 

"Price,  ye  can  wind  up  that  box  o'  yours.  Mr.  Gil- 
man  is  coming  on  deck.    He's  wonderful  better." 


CHAPTER  XXXn 


BY    THE    BINNACLE 


The  owner  was  at  the  wheel.  But  he  had  not  got 
there  at  once.  This  singular  man,  who  strangely 
enough  was  wearing  one  of  his  most  effulgent  and  het- 
erogeneous club  neckties,  had  begun  by  dancing.  He 
danced  with  all  three  ladies,  one  after  the  other;  and 
he  did  not  merely  dance, — he  danced  modernly,  he 
danced  the  new  dances  to  the  new  tunes,  given  off  like 
intoxicating  gas  from  the  latest  of  gramophones.  He 
knew  how  to  hold  the  arm  of  a  woman  above  her  head, 
while  coiling  his  own  around  it  in  the  manner  of  a 
snake,  and  he  knew  how  to  make  his  very  body  a  vast 
syncopation.  The  effect  of  his  arrival  was  as  singu- 
lar as  himself.  Captain  Wyatt,  Doctor  Cromarty  and 
Mr.  Price  withdrew  to  that  portion  of  the  deck  about 
the  wheel  which  convention  had  always  roped  off  for 
them  with  invisible  ropes.  The  captain,  by  custom, 
messed  by  himself,  whereas  the  other  two  had  their 
meals  in  the  saloon,  entering  and  leaving  quickly  and 
saying  little  while  at  table.  But  apart  from  meals  the 
three  formed  a  separate  clan  on  the  yacht.  The  indis- 
position of  the  owner  had  dissolved  this  clan  into  the 
general  population  of  the  saloon.  The  recovery  of  the 
owner  re-created  it.  Mr.  Price  had  suddenly  begun  to 
live  arduously  for  the  gramophone  alone.  And  when 
summoned  by  the  owner  to  come  and  form  half  of  the 
third  couple  for  dancing,  Doctor  Cromarty  had  the 
air  of  arousing  himself  from  a  meditation  upon  medi- 

274 


BY  THE  BINNACLE  275 

cine.  Also,  the  passengers  themselves  danced  with  con- 
scientiousness, with  elaborate  gusto  and  with  an  earnest 
desire  to  reach  a  high  standard.  And  between  dances 
everybody  went  up  to  Mr.  Gilman  and  said  how  lovely 
it  all  was.    And  it  really  was  lovely. 

Mr.  Gilman  had  taken  the  wheel  after  about  the 
sixth  dance.  Approaching  Audrey,  who  owed  him  the 
next  dance,  he  had  said  that  the  skipper  had  hinted 
something  about  his  taking  the  wheel  and  he  thought 
he  had  better  oblige  the  old  fellow,  if  Audrey  was  quite, 
quite  sure  she  didn't  mind,  and  would  she  come  and  sit 
by  him  instead, — for  one  dance?  ...  As  soon  as  two 
sailors  had  fixed  cushions  for  Audrey,  and  the  skipper 
had  giA'en  the  owner  the  course,  all  persons  seemed  to 
withdraw  respectfully  from  the  pair,  who  were  in  the 
shadow  of  a  great  spar,  with  the  glimmer  of  the  bin- 
nacle just  in  front  of  them.  The  square  sail  had  been 
lowered,  and  the  engines  started,  and  a  steady,  faint 
throb  kept  the  yacht  mysteriously  alive  in  every  plank 
of  her.  The  gramophone  and  the  shuffle  of  feet  con- 
tinued, because  Mr.  Gilman  had  expressly  desired  that 
his  momentary  defection  with  a  lady  and  in  obedience 
to  duty  should  not  bring  the  ball  to  an  end.  Laughter 
and  even  giggles  came  from  the  ballroom.  Males  were 
dancing  together.  The  power  of  the  moon  had  in- 
creased. The  binnacle-light,  however,  threw  up  a  ra- 
diance of  its  own  on  to  Mr.  Gilman's  lowered  face,  the 
face  of  a  kind,  a  good,  and  a  dependably  expert  indi- 
viduality who  was  watching  over  the  safety,  the  wel- 
fare and  the  highest  interests  of  every  soul  on  board, 

"I  was  very  sorry  to  be  laid  up  to-day,"  Mr.  Gil- 
man began  suddenly,  in  a  very  quiet  voice,  frowning 
benevolently  at  the  black  pointer  on  the  compass. 
*'But,  of  course,  you  know  my  great  enemy." 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Audrey,  gently. 


/ 


276  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"Hasn't  Doc  told  you?" 

"Doctor  Cromarty?     No,  he  doesn't  tell  much." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Gilman,  looking  round  quickly  and 
shyly,  rather  in  the  manner  of  a  boy,  "it's  liver," 

Audrey  seemed  to  read  in  his  face,  first,  that  Doctor 
Cromarty  had  received  secret  orders  never  to  tell  any- 
body anything,  and,  second,  that  the  great  enemy  was 
not  liver.  And  she  thought:  "So  this  is  human  na- 
ture !  Mature  men,  wise  men,  dignified  men  do  de- 
scend to  these  paltry  deceits  just  in  order  to  keep  up 
appearances,  though  they  must  know  quite  well  that 
they  don't  deceive  any  one  who  is  worth  deceiving." 
The  remarkable  fact  was  that  she  did  not  feel  in  the 
least  shocked  or  disdainful.  She  merely  decided — and 
found  a  certain  queer  pleasure  in  the  decision — that 
human  nature  was  a  curious  phenomenon,  and  that 
there  must  be  a  lot  of  it  on  earth.  And  she  felt  kindly 
towards  Mr.  Gilman. 

"If  you'd  said  gout "  she  remarked.     "I  always 

understood  that  men  generally  had  gout."  And  she 
consciously,  with  intention,  employed  a  simple,  inno- 
cent tone,  knowing  that  it  misled  Mr.  Gilman,  and 
wanting  it  to  mislead  him. 

"No !"  he  went  on.  "Liver.  All  sailors  suffer  from 
it,  more  or  less.  It's  the  bugbear  of  the  sea.  I  have  a 
doctor  on  board  because,  with  a  score  or  so  of  crew, 
it's  really  a  duty  to  have  a  doctor." 

"I  quite  see  that,"  Audrey  agreed,  thinking  mildly: 
"You  only  have  a  doctor  on  board  because  you're  al- 
ways worrying  about  3^our  own  health." 

"However,"  said  Mr.  Gilman,  "he's  not  much  use  to 
me  personally.  He  doesn't  understand  liver.  Scotch- 
men never  do.  Fortunately,  I  have  a  very  good  doctor 
in  Paris.  I  prefer  French  doctors.  And  I'm  sure 
they're  right  on  the  great  liver  question.     All  English 


BY  THE  BINNACLE  277 

(doctors  tell  you  to  take  plenty  of  violent  exercise  if 
you  want  to  shake  off  a  liver  attack.  Quite  wrong. 
Too  much  exercise  tires  the  body  and  so  it  tires  the 
liver  as  well — obviously.  What's  the  result?  You  can 
see,  can't  you  .'*  The  liver  works  worse  than  ever.  Now, 
a  French  doctor  will  advise  complete  rest  until  the  at- 
tack is  over.  Then  exercise,  if  you  like ;  but  not  before. 
Of  course,  you  don't  know  you've  got  a  liver,  and  I 
daresay  you  think  it's  very  odd  of  me  to  talk  about  my 
liver.     I'm  sure  you  do." 

"I  don't,  honestly.  I  like  you  to  talk  like  that.  It's 
very  interesting."  And  she  thought :  "Suppose  Tommy 
was  wrong,  after  all!  .   .   .   She's  very  spiteful." 

"That's  you  all  over,  Mrs.  MoncreifF.  You  under- 
stand men  far  better  than  any  other  woman  I  ever  saw, 
unless,  perhaps,  it's  Madame  Piriac." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Oilman !    How  can  you  say  such  a  thing.'"' 

"It's  not  the  first  time  you've  heard  it,  I  wager!"  said 
Mr.  Oilman.  "And  it  won't  be  the  last !  Any  man  who 
knows  women  can  see  at  once  that  you  are  one  of  the 
women  who  understand.  Otherwise,  do  you  imagine  I 
should  have  begun  upon  my  troubles.''" 

Now,  at  any  rate,  he  was  sincere — she  was  con- 
vinced of  that.  And  he  looked  very  smart  as  he  spied 
the  horizon  for  lights  and  peered  at  the  compass,  and 
moved  the  wheel  at  intervals  with  a  strong,  accustomed 
gesture.  And,  assuredly,  he  looked  very  experienced. 
Audrey  blushed.  She  just  had  to  believe  that  there 
must  be  something  in  what  he  said  concerning  her  tal- 
ent.    She  had  noticed  it  herself  several  times. 

In  an  interval  of  the  music  the  sea  washed  with  a 
long  sound  against  the  bow  of  the  yacht ;  then  silence. 

"I  do  love  that  sudden  wash  against  the  yacht,"  said 
Audrey. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Mr.  Oilman,  "so  do  I.     All  doctors 


278  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

tell  me  that  I  should  be  better  if  I  gave  up  yachting. 
But  I  won't.  I  couldn't.  Whatever  it  costs  in  health, 
yachting's  worth  it." 

"Oh !  It  must  be !"  cried  Audrey,  with  enthusiasm. 
"I've  never  been  on  a  yacht  before,  but  I  quite  agree 
with  you.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  live  on  a  yacht  forever — 
always  going  to  new  places,  you  know;  that's  how  I 
feel." 

"You  do.'*"  Mr.  Gilman  exclaimed  and  gazed  at  her 
for  a  moment  with  a  sort  of  ecstasy.  Audrey  instinc- 
tively checked  herself.  "There's  a  freemasonry  among 
those  who  like  yachting."  His  eyes  returned  to  the 
compass.  "I've  kept  your  secret.  I've  kept  it  like 
something  precious.  I've  enjoyed  keeping  it.  It's  been 
a  comfort  to  me.  Now  I  wonder  if  you'll  do  the  same 
for  me,  Mrs.  Moncreiff.?" 

"Do  what.'"'  Audrey  asked,  weakly,  intimidated. 

"Keep  a  secret.  I  shouldn't  dream  of  telling  it  to 
Madame  Piriac.     Will  you.?     May  I  tell  you.?" 

"Yes,  if  you  think  you  can  trust  me,"  said  Aubrey, 
concealing,  with  amazing  ease  and  skill,  her  excite- 
ment and  her  mighty  pleasure  in  the  scene  .  .  .  "He 
wouldn't  dream  of  telling  it  to  Madame  Piriac"  ...  It 
is  doubtful  whether  she  had  ever  enjoyed  anything  so 
much,  and  yet  she  was  as  prim  as  a  nun. 

"I'm  not  a  happy  man,  Mrs.  Moncreiff.  Materially, 
I've  everything  a  man  can  want,  I  suppose.  But  I'm 
not  happy.  You  may  laugh  and  say  it's  my  liver.  But 
it  isn't.  You're  a  woman  of  the  world ;  you  know  what 
life  is;  and  yet  experience  hasn't  spoilt  you.  I  could 
say  anything  to  you ;  anything !  And  you  wouldn't  be 
shocked,  would  you?" 

"No,"  said  Audrey,  hoping,  nevertheless,  that  he 
would   not    say    "anything,    anything,"    but    somehow 


BY  THE  BINNACLE  279 

simultaneously  hoping  that  he  would.     It  was  a  dis- 
concerting sensation. 

"I  want  you  always  to  remember  that  Fm  unhappy 
and  never  to  tell  anybody,"  Mr.  Gilman  resumed. 

"But  why?" 

"It  will  be  a  kindness  to  me." 

"I  mean,  why  are  you  unhappy?" 

"My  opinions  have  all  changed.  I  used  to  think  I 
could  be  independent  of  women.  Not  that  I  didn't  like 
women!  I  did.  But  when  I'd  left  them  I  was  quite 
happy.  You  know  what  the  facts  of  life  are,  Mrs. 
MoncreifF.  Young  as  you  are  you  are  older  than  me 
in  some  respects,  though  I  have  a  long  Hfe  before  me. 
It's  just  because  I  have  a  long  Hfe  before  me — dyspep- 
tics are  always  long-lived — that  I'm  afraid  for  the  fu- 
ture.  It  wouldn't  matter  so  much  if  I  was  an  old  man." 

"But,"  asked  Audrey,  adventurously,  "why  should 
you  be  unhappy  because  your  opinions  have  changed? 
What  opinions?"  She  endeavoured  to  be  perfectly 
judicial  and  indifferent,  and  yet  kind. 

"What  opinions?  Well,  about  woman  suffrage,  for 
instance.  You  remember  that  night  at  the  Foas',  and 
what  I  remarked  afterwards  about  what  you  all  said?" 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  said  Audrey.  "But  can  you  re- 
member it?    Fancy  you  remembering  a  thing  like  that !" 

"I  remember  every  word  that  was  said.  It  changed 
me  .  .  .  Not  at  first.  Oh,  no !  Not  for  several  days, 
perhaps  weeks.  I  fought  against  it.  Then  I  said  to 
myself,  'How  absurd  to  fight  against  it!'  .  .  .  Well, 
I've  come  to  believe  in  women  having  the  vote.  You've 
no  more  staunch  supporter  than  I  am.  I  want  women 
to  have  the  vote.  And  you're  the  first  person  I've  ever 
said  that  to.    I  want  you  to  have  the  vote." 

He  smiled  at  her,  and  she  saw  scores  and  scores  of 
excellent  qualities  in  his  smile;  she  could  not  believe 


280  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

that  he  had  any  defect  whatever.  His  secret  was 
precious  to  her.  She  considered  that  he  had  confided 
it  to  her  in  a  manner  both  distinguished  and  poetical. 
He  had  shown  a  quality  which  no  youth  could  have 
shown.  Youths  were  inferior,  crude,  incomplete.  Not 
that  Mr.  Gilman  was  not  young !  Emphatically  he  was 
young,  but  her  conception  of  the  nvmiber  of  years  com- 
prised in  youthfulness  had  been  enlarged.  She  saw,  as 
in  a  magical  enlightenment,  that  forty  was  young,  fifty 
was  young,  any  age  was  young  provided  it  had  the 
right  gestures.  As  for  herself,  she  was  without  age. 
The  obvious  fact  that  Mr.  Gilman  was  her  slave  touched 
her;  it  saddened  her,  but  sweetly;  it  gave  her  a  new 
sense  of  responsibility. 

She  said : 

"I  still  don't  see  why  this  change  of  view  should  make 
you  unhappy.  I  should  have  thought  it  would  have 
just  the  opposite  effect." 

"It  has  altered  all  my  desires,"  he  replied.  "Do  you 
know,  I'm  not  really  interested  in  this  new  yacht  now! 
And  that's  the  truth." 

"Mr.  Gilman !"  she  checked  him.  "How  can  you  say 
such  a  thing.?" 

It  now  appeared  that  she  was  not  a  nice  girl.  If 
she  had  been  a  nice  girl  she  would  not  have  compre- 
hended what  Mr.  Gilman  was  ultimately  driving  at.  The 
word  "marriage"  would  never  have  sounded  in  her 
brain.  And  she  would  have  been  startled  and  shocked 
had  Mr.  Gilman  even  hinted  that  there  was  such  a  word 
^  in  the  dictionary.  But  not  being,  after  all,  a  nice  girl, 
she  actually  dwelt  on  the  notion  of  marriage  with  some- 
body exactly  like  Mr.  Gilman.  She  imagined  how  fine 
and  comfortable  and  final  it  would  be.  She  admitted 
that  despite  her  riches  and  her  independence  she  would 
be  and  could  be  simply  naught  until  she  possessed  a 


BY  THE  BINNACLE  281 

man  and  could  show  him  to  the  world  as  her  own. 
Strange  attitude  for  a  wealthy  feminist,  but  she  had 
the  attitude!  And,  moreover,  she  enjoyed  having  it; 
she  revelled  in  it.  She  desired,  impatiently,  that  Mr. 
Gilman  should  proceed  further.  She  thirsted  for  his 
next  remark.  And  her  extremely  deceptive  features 
displayed  only  a  blend  of  simplicity  and  soft  pity. 
Those  features  did  not  actually  lie,  for  she  was  in- 
genuous without  being  aware  of  it  and  her  pity  for  the 
fellow-creature  whose  lot  she  could  assuage  with  a 
glance  was  real  enough.  But  they  did  suppress  about 
nine-tenths  of  the  truth. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Gilman,  "there  is  nothing  I 
could  not  say  to  you.  And — and — of  course,  you'll  say 
I  scarcely  know  you — yet " 

Clearly  he  was  proceeding  further.  She  waited  as  in 
a  theatre  one  waits  for  a  gun  to  go  off  on  the  stage. 
And  then  the  gun  did  go  off,  but  not  the  gun  she  was 
expecting. 

Skipper  Wyatt's  head  popped  up  like  a  cannon-shot 
out  of  a  hole  in  the  forward  deck,  and  it  gazed  sharply 
and  apprehensively  around  the  calm,  moonlit  sea.  Mr. 
Gilman  was,  beyond  question,  perturbed  by  the  move- 
ments of  that  head,  though  he  could  not  see  the  expres- 
sion of  the  eyes.  This  was  the  first  phenomenon.  The 
second  phenomenon  was  a  swirling  of  water  round  the 
after  part  of  the  ship,  and  this  swirling  went  on  until 
the  water  was  white  with  a  thin  foam. 

"Reverse   those   d d   engines !"   shouted   Captain 

Wyatt,  quite  regardless  of  the  proximity  of  refined 
women.  Pie  had  now  cprung  clear  of  the  hole  and  was 
running  aft.  The  whole  world  of  the  yacht  could  not 
but  see  that  he  was  coatless  and  that  his  white  shirt- 
sleeves, being  rather  long,  were  kept  in  position  by  red 
elastic  rings  round  his  arms.     "Is  that  blithering  en- 


282  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

gineer  asleep?"  continued  Captain  Wyatt,  ignoring  the 
whole  system  of  yacht  etiquette.  "She's  getting  harder 
on  every  second!" 

"Ay,  ay,  skipper!"  came  a  muffled  voice  from  the 
engine-room. 

"And  not  too  soon  either !"  snapped  the  Captain. 

The  yacht  throbbed  more  violently;  the  swirling  in- 
creased, furiously.  The  captain  stared  over  the  rail. 
Then,  after  an  interval,  he  stamped  on  the  deck  in 
disgust. 

"Shut  ofF!"  he  yeUed.     "It's  no  good." 

The  yacht  ceased  to  throb.  The  swirling  came  to  an 
end,  and  the  thin  white  foam  faded  into  flat  sombre 
water.  Whereupon  Captain  Wyatt  turned  back  to 
the  wheel,  which,  in  his  extreme  haste,  he  had  passed  by. 

"You've  run  her  on  to  the  sand,  sir,"  said  he  to  Mr. 
Gilman,  respectfully  but  still  accusingly. 

"Oh,  no!  Impossible!"  Mr.  Gilman  defended  him- 
self, pained  by  the  charge. 

"She's  hard  on,  anyhow,  sir.  And  many  a  good 
yacht's  left  her  bones  on  this  Buxey." 

"But  you  gave  me  the  course,"  protested  Mr.  Gil- 
man, with  haughtiness. 

Captain  Wyatt  bent  down  and  looked  at  the  bin- 
nacle. He  was  contentedly  aware  that  the  compass  of 
a  yacht  hard  aground  cannot  lie  and  cannot  be  made 
to  he.  The  camera  can  lie ;  the  speedometer  of  an  auto- 
mobile after  an  accident  can  lie — or  can  conceal  the 
truth  and  often  does,  but  the  compass  of  a  yacht 
aground  is  insusceptible  to  any  blandishment;  it  shows 
the  course  at  the  moment  of  striking  and  nothing  will 
persuade  it  to  alter  its  evidence. 

"What  course  did  I  give  you,  sir.?"  asked  Captain 
Wyatt. 


BY  THE  BINNACLE  283 

And  as  Mr.  Gilman  hesitated  In  his  reply,  the  skip- 
per pointed  silently  to  the  compass. 

"Where's  the  chart?  Let  me  see  the  chart,"  said 
Mr.  Gilman  with  sudden  majesty. 

The  chart  in  its  little  brass  frame  was  handy.  Mr. 
Gilman  examined  it  in  a  hostile  manner ;  one  might  say 
that  he  cross-examined  it,  and  with  it  the  horizon. 
"Ah !"  he  muttered  at  length,  peering  at  the  print  under 
the  chart,  "  'Corrected  1906.'  Out  of  date.  Pity  they 
don't  re-issue  these  charts  oftener." 

His  observations  had  no  relation  whatever  to  the 
matter  in  hand ;  considered  as  a  contribution  to  the  un- 
ravelling of  the  matter  in  hand  they  were  merely  idiotic. 
Nevertheless  such  were  the  exact  words  he  uttered,  and 
he  appeared  to  get  great  benefit  and  solace  from  them. 
They  somehow  enabled  him  to  meet,  quite  satisfac- 
torily, the  gaze  of  his  guests  who  had  now  gathered 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  wheel. 

Audrey  alone  showed  a  desire  to  move  away  from 
the  wheel.  The  fact  was  that  the  skipper  had  glanced 
at  her  in  a  peculiar  way  and  his  eyes  had  seemed  to 
say,  with  disdain :  "Women !  Women  again !"  Noth- 
ing but  that !  The  implications,  however,  were  plain. 
Audrey  may  have  been  discountenanced  by  the  look 
in  the  captain's  eyes,  but  at  the  same  time  she  had  an 
inward  pride,  because  it  was  undeniable  that  Mr.  Gil- 
man, owing  to  his  extreme  and  agitated  interest  in  her- 
self, had  put  the  yacht  off  the  course  and  was  thereby 
imperilling  numerous  lives.  Audrey  liked  that.  And 
she  exonerated  Mr.  Gilman,  and  she  hated  the  captain 
for  daring  to  accuse  him,  and  she  mysteriously  nursed 
the  wounded  dignity  of  Mr.  Gilman  far  better  than 
he  could  nurse  it  himself. 

Her  feehngs  were  assuredly  complex,  and  they  grew 
more  complex  when  the  sense  of  danger  began  to  dom- 


284.  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

mate  them.  The  sense  of  danger  came  to  her  out  of 
the  demeanour  of  her  companions  and  out  of  the  swift 
appearance  on  deck  of  every  member  of  the  crew,  in- 
cluding the  parlourmaid,  and  including  three  men  who 
were  incompletely  clothed.  The  yacht  was  no  longer 
a  floating  hotel,  automobile  and  dancing-saloon ;  it  was 
a  stranded  wreck.  Not  a  passenger  on  board  knew 
whether  the  tide  was  making  or  ebbing,  but,  secretly, 
all  were  convinced  that  it  was  ebbing  and  that  they 
would  be  left  on  the  treacherous  sand  and  ultimately 
swallowed  up  therein,  even  if  a  storm  did  not  super- 
vene and  smash  the  craft  to  bits  in  the  classical  manner. 
The  skipper's  words  about  the  bones  of  many  a  good 
yacht  had  escaped  no  ear. 

Further,  not  a  passenger  knew  where  the  yacht  was 
or  whither,  exactly,  she  was  bound  or  whether  the  glass 
was  rising  or  falling,  for  guests  on  yachts  seldom  con- 
cern themselves  about  details.  Of  course,  signals  might 
be  made  to  passing  ships,  but  signals  were  often,  ac- 
cording to  maritime  history,  unheeded  and  the  ocean 
was  very  large  and  empty,  though  it  was  only  the  Ger- 
man Ocean  .  .  .  Musa  was  nervous  and  angry.  Audrey 
knew  from  her  intimate  knowledge  of  him  that  he  was 
angry  and  she  wondered  why  he  should  be  angry.  Ma- 
dame Piriac,  on  the  other  hand,  was  entirely  calm. 
Her  calmness  seemed  to  say  to  those  responsible,  and 
even  to  the  not-responsible  passenger:  "You  got  me 
into  this  and  it  is  inconceivable  that  you  should  not  get 
me  out  of  it.  I  have  always  been  looked  after  and 
protected,  and  I  must  be  looked  after  and  protected 
now.  I  absolutely  decline  to  be  worried."  But  Miss 
Thompkins  was  worried,  she  was  very  seriously 
alarmed ;  fear  was  in  her  face. 

"I  do  think  it's  a  shame!"  she  broke  out  almost 
loudly,  in  a  trembling  voice,  to  Audrey.     "I  do  think 


BY  THE  BINNACLE  285 

it's  a  shame  you  should  go  flirting  with  poor  Mr.  Gil- 
man  when  he's  steering."     And  she  meant  all  she  said. 

"Me  flirting!"  Audrey  exclaimed,  passionately  re- 
sentful. 

Withal,  the  sense  of  danger  continued  to  increase. 
Still  there  were  the  boats.  There  were  the  motor- 
launch,  the  cutter  and  the  dinghy.  The  sea  was — for 
the  present — calm  and  the  moon  encouraging. 

"Lower  the  dinghy  there  and  look  lively  now !"  cried 
the  captain. 

This  command  more  than  ever  frightened  all  the 
passengers  who,  in  their  nervousness  and  alarm,  had 
tried  to  pretend  to  themselves  that  nervousness  and 
alarm  were  absurd,  and  that  first-class  yachts  never 
did,  and  could  not,  get  wrecked.  The  command  was 
a  thunderstroke.  It  proved  that  the  danger  was  im- 
mediate and  intense.  And  the  thought  of  all  the  beau- 
tiful food  and  drink  on  board,  and  all  the  soft  cushions 
and  the  electric  hair-curlers  and  the  hot-water  supply 
and  the  ice  gave  no  consolation  whatever.  The  idea 
of  the  futility  and  wickedness  of  luxury  desolated  the 
guests  and  made  them  austere,  and  yet  even  in  that 
moment  they  speculated  upon  what  goods  they  might 
take  with  them. 

And  why  the  dinghy,  though  it  was  a  dinghy  of  large 
size.''    Why  not  the  launch.'' 

After  the  dinghy  had  been  dropped  into  the  sea  an 
old  sail  was  carefully  spread  amidships  over  her  bot- 
tom and  she  was  lugged,  by  her  painter,  towards  the 
bow  of  the  yacht  where,  with  much  grating  of  wind- 
lasses and  of  temperaments  and  voices,  an  anchor 
was  very  gently  lowered  into  her  and  rested  on  the  old 
sail.  The  anchor  was  so  immense  that  it  sank  the 
dinghy  up  to  her  gunwale,  and  then  she  was  rowed  away 
to  a  considerable  distance,  a  chain  grinding  after  her. 


286  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

and  in  due  time  the  anchor  was  pitched  with  a  great 
splash  into  the  water.  The  sound  of  orders  and  of  re- 
pHes  vibrated  romantically  over  the  surface  of  the 
water.  Then  a  windlass  was  connected  with  the  engine, 
and  the  passengers  comprehended  that  the  intention 
was  to  drag  the  yacht  off  the  sand  by  main  force.  The 
chain  clacked  and  strained  horribly.  The  shouting 
multiplied,  as  though  the  vessel  had  been  a  great  beast 
that  could  be  bullied  into  obedience.  The  muscles  of 
all  passengers  were  drawn  taut  in  sympathy  with  the 
chain,  and  at  length  there  was  a  lurch  and  the  chain 
gradually  slackened. 

"She's  off!"  breathed  the  captain.  "We've  saved  a 
good  half  hour." 

"She'd  have  floated  off  by  herself,"  said  Mr.  Gilman, 
grandly. 

"Yes,  sir,'  said  the  captain.  "But  if  it  had  hap- 
pened to  be  the  ebb,  sir "     He  left  it  at  that  and 

began  on  a  new  series  of  orders,  embracing  the  dinghy, 
the  engines,  the  anchor  and  another  anchor. 

And  all  the  passengers  resumed  their  courage  and 
their  ancient  notions  about  the  excellence  of  luxury, 
and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  navigation  was  a  very 
simple  affair,  and  in  less  than  five  minutes  were  sin- 
cerely convinced  that  they  had  never  known  fear. 

Later  the  impressive  sight  was  witnessed  of  Madame 
Piriac,  on  her  shoulders  such  a  cloak  as  certainly  had 
never  been  seen  on  a  yacht  before,  bearing  Mr.  Gil- 
man's  valuable  violin  like  a  jewel-casket.  She  had  found 
it  below  and  brought  it  up  on  deck. 

The  Ariadne  was  now  passing  to  port  those  twinkling 
cities  of  delight,  Clacton  and  Frinton,  and  the  long  pier 
of  Walton  stretched  out  towards  it,  a  string  of  to- 
pazes. The  moon  was  higher  and  brighter  than  ever, 
but  clouds  had  heaped  themselves  up  to  windward,  and 


BY  THE  BINNACLE  287 

the  surface  of  the  water  was  rippled.  Moreover,  the 
yacht  was  now  working  over  a  strong,  foul  tide.  The 
company,  with  the  exception  of  Mr.  Gilman,  who  had 
gone  below — apparently  in  order  to  avoid  being  on  the 
same  deck  with  Captain  Wyatt,  had  decided  that  Musa 
should  be  asked  to  play.  Although  the  sound  of  his 
practising  had  escaped  occasionally  through  the  port- 
hole of  a  locked  cabin,  he  had  not  once  during  the 
cruise  performed  for  the  public  benefit.  Dancing  was 
finished.  Why  should  not  the  yacht  profit  by  the  pres- 
ence of  a  great  genius  on  board.''  The  doctor  and 
the  secretary  were  of  one  mind  with  the  women  that 
there  was  no  good  answer  to  this  question,  and  even 
the  crew  obviously  felt  that  the  genius  ought  to  show 
what  he  was  made  of. 

"Dare  we  ask  you.'"'  said  Madame  Piriac  to  the 
youth,  offering  him  the  violin-case.  Her  supplicatory 
tone  and  attitude,  though  they  were  somewhat  assumed, 
proved  to  what  a  height  Musa  had  recently  risen  as  a 
personage. 

He  hesitated,  leaning  against  the  rail  and  nervously 
fingering  it. 

"I  know  it  is  a  great  deal  to  ask.  But  you  would 
give  us  so  much  pleasure,"  said  Madame  Piriac. 

Musa  replied  in  a  dry,  curt  voice: 

"I  should  prefer  not  to  play." 

"Oh !    But  Musa "    There  was  a  general  protest. 

"I  cannot  play,"  Musa  exclaimed  with  impatience, 
and  moved  almost  savagely  away. 

The  experience  was  novel  for  Madame  Piriac,  left 
standing  there,  as  it  were,  respectfully  presenting  the 
violin-case  to  the  rail.  This  beautiful  and  not  unpam- 
pered  lady  was  accustomed  to  see  her  commands  re- 
ceived as  an  honour;  and  when  she  condescended  to 
Implore,  the  effect  usually  was  to  produce  a  blissful  and 


288  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

deprecatory  confusion  in  the  person  besought.  Her 
husband  and  Mr.  Gilman  had  for  a  number  of  years 
been  teaching  her  that  whatever  she  desired  was  the 
highest  good  and  the  most  complete  fehcity  to  every- 
body concerned  in  the  fulfilment  of  the  desire.  She 
bore  the  blow  from  Muza  admirably,  keeping  both  her 
smile  and  her  dignity,  and  with  one  gesture  excusing 
Musa  to  all  beholders  as  a  capricious  and  a  sensitive 
artist  in  whom  moodiness  was  lawful.  It  was  ex- 
quisitely done.  It  could  not  have  been  better  done. 
But  not  even  Madame  Piriac's  extreme  skill  could  save 
the  episode  from  having  the  air  of  a  social  disaster. 
The  gaiety  which  had  been  too  feverishly  resumed  after 
the  salvage  of  the  yacht  from  the  sandbank  expired 
like  a  pricked  balloon.  People  silently  vanished,  and 
only  Audrey  was  left  on  the  after  deck. 

It  was  after  a  long  interval  that  she  became  aware 
of  the  reappearance  of  Musa.  Seemingly,  he  had  been 
in  the  engine-room;  since  the  beginning  of  the  cruise 
he  had  shown  a  fancy  for  both  the  engine-room  and 
the  engineer.  To  her  surprise,  he  marched  straight 
towards  her  deck-chair. 

"I  must  speak  to  you,"  he  said,  with  emotion. 

"Must  you?"  Audrey  replied,  full  of  hot  resent- 
ment. "I  think  you've  been  horrid,  Musa.  Perfectly 
horrid !  But  I  suppose  you  have  your  own  notions 
of  politeness  now.  Everything  has  been  done  for  you 
and " 

"What  is  that.''"  he  stopped  her.  "Everything  has 
been  done  for  me.  What  is  it  that  has  been  done  for 
me?  I  play  for  years.  I  am  ignored.  Then  I  succeed. 
I  am  noticed.  Men  of  affairs  offer  me  immense  sums. 
But  am  I  surprised?  Not  the  least  in  the  world.  It 
is  the  contrary  which  would  have  surprised  me.  It  was 
inevitable  that  I  should  succeed.     But  note  well — it 


BY  THE  BINNACLE  289 

is  I  myself  who  succeed.  It  is  not  my  friends.  It  is 
Hot  the  concert  agent.  Do  I  regard  the  concert  agent 
as  a  benefactor?  Again,  not  the  least  in  the  world. 
You  say  everything  has  been  done  for  me.  Nothing 
has  been  done  for  me,  Madame." 

"Yes,  yes,"  faltered  Audrey,  who  was  in  a  dilemma, 
and  therefore  more  resentful  than  ever.  "I — I  only 
mean  your  friends  have  always  stood  by  you."  She 
gathered  courage,  sat  up  erect  in  her  deck-chair,  and 
finished  haughtily :  "And  now  you're  conceited.  You're 
insufferably  conceited." 

"Because  I  refused  to  play.'"'  He  laughed  stridently 
and  grimly.  "No.  I  refused  to  play  because  I  could 
not,  because  I  was  outside  myself  with  jealousy.  Yes, 
jealousy.  You  do  not  know  jealousy.  Perhaps  you 
are  incapable  of  it.  But  permit  me  to  tell  you,  Ma- 
dame, that  jealousy  is  one  of  the  finest  and  most  ter- 
rible emotions.  And  that  is  why  I  must  speak  to  you. 
I  cannot  live  and  see  you  flirt  so  seriously  with  that 
old  idiot.     I  cannot  live." 

Audrey  jumped  up  from  the  chair. 

"Musa!  I  shall  never  speak  to  you  again.  .  .  .  Me 
.  .  .  flirt  .  .  .  And  you  call  Mr.  Gilman  an  old  idiot !" 

"What  words  would  you  employ,  Madame.''  He  was 
so  agitated  by  your  intimate  conversation  that  he 
brought  us  all  near  to  death,  in  any  case.  Moreover, 
it  jumps  to  the  eyes  that  the  decrepit  satyr  is  mad 
about  you.     Mad !" 

And  Musa's  voice  broke.  In  the  midst  of  all  her 
fury,  Audrey  was  relieved  that  it  did  break,  for  the 
reason  that  it  was  getting  very  loud,  and  the  wheel, 
with  Captain  Wyatt  thereat,  was  not  far  off. 

There  was  one  thing  to  do,  and  Audrey  did  it.  She 
walked  away  rapidly.  And,  as  she  did  so,  she  was 
startled  to  discover  a  sob  in  her  throat.     The  drawn, 


290  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

highly  emotionalised  face  of  Musa  remained  with  her. 
She  was  angry,  indignant,  infuriated,  and  yet  her  feel- 
ings were  not  utteriy  unpleasant,  though  she  wanted 
them  to  be  so.  In  the  first  place,  they  were  exciting. 
And  in  the  second  place — what  was  it.? — well,  she  had 
the  strange,  sweet  sensation  of  being,  somehow,  the 
mainspring  of  the  universe,  of  being  immensely  im- 
portant in  the  scheme  of  things. 

She  thought  her  cup  was  full.  It  was  not.  Staring 
blankly  over  the  side  of  the  ship,  she  saw  a  buoy  float 
slowly  by.  She  saw  it  with  the  utmost  clearness,  and 
on  its  round  black  surface  was  painted  in  white  letters 
the  word  "Flank."  There  could  not  be  two  Flank 
buoys.  It  was  the  Flank  buoy  of  the  Mozewater  nav- 
igable channel.  .  .  .  She  glanced  around.  The  well- 
remembered  shores  of  Mozewater  were  plainly  visible 
under  the  moon.  In  the  distance,  over  the  bowsprit, 
she  could  discern  the  mass  of  the  tower  of  Mozewater 
church.  She  could  not  distinguish  Flank  Hall,  but 
she  knew  it  was  there.  Why  were  they  threading  the 
Mozewater  channel.?  It  had  been  distinctly  given  out 
that  the  yacht  would  make  Harwich  harbour.  Almost 
unconsciously  she  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  wheel, 
where  Captain  Wyatt  was.  Then,  controlling  herself, 
she  moved  away.  She  knew  that  she  could  not  speak 
to  the  Captain,  She  went  below,  and,  before  she  could 
escape,  found  the  saloon  populated. 

"Oh!  Mrs.  MoncreifF!"  cried  Madame  Piriac.  "It 
is  a  miraculous  coincidence.  You  will  never  guess. 
One  tells  me  we  are  going  to  the  village  of  Moze  for 
the  night;  it  is  because  of  the  tide.  You  remember, 
I  told  you.  It  is  where  lives  my  little  friend,  Audrey 
Moze.  To-morrow  I  visit  her,  and  you  must  come 
with  me.  I  insist  that  you  come  with  me.  I  have  never 
seen  her.    It  will  be  all  that  is  most  palpitating." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 


aguilae's  double  life 


Madame  Piriac  came  down  into  the  saloon  the  next 
afternoon. 

"Oh !  You  are  still  hiding  yourself  here !"  she  mur- 
mured gaily  to  Audrey,  who  was  alone  among  the  cush- 
ions. 

"I  was  just  resting,"  said  Audrey.  "Remember  what 
a  night  we  had!" 

It  was  true  that  the  yacht  had  not  been  berthed  at 
Lousey  Hard  until  between  two  and  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  that  no  guest  had  slept  until  after 
the  job  was  done,  though  more  than  one  had  tried  to 
sleep.  It  was  also  true  that  in  consequence  the  saloon 
breakfast  had  been  abrogated,  that  even  the  saloon 
lunch  lacked  vivacity,  and  that  at  least  one  passenger 
was  at  that  moment  dozing  in  his  cabin.  But  not  on 
account  of  fatigue  and  somnolence  was  Audrey  remain- 
ing in  the  saloon  instead  of  taking  the  splendid  sum- 
mer afternoon  on  deck  under  the  awning.  She  felt 
neither  tired  nor  sleepy.  The  true  secret  was  that 
she  feared  the  crowd  of  village  idlers,  quidnuncs,  tat- 
lers,  and  newsmongers  who  all  day  gazed  from  Lousey 
Hard  at  the  wonder-yacht. 

Examining  the  line  of  faces  as  well  as  she  could 
through  portholes,  she  recognised  nearly  every  one  of 
them,  and  was  quite  sure  that  every  one  of  them  would 
recognise  her  face.  To  go  ashore  or  to  stay  promi- 
nently on  deck  would,  therefore,  be  to  give  away  her 
identity  and  to  be  forced,  sooner  or  later,  to  admit 

291 


292  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

that  she  had  practised  a  long  and  naughty  deception. 
She  could  conceive  some  of  those  villagers  greeting 
her  loudly  from  the  Hard  if  she  should  appear;  for 
Essex  manners  were  marked  by  strange  freedoms.  Her 
situation  would  be  terrible.  It,  in  fact,  was  terrible. 
Risks  surrounded  her  like  angry  dogs.  Musa,  for 
example,  ought  surely  to  have  noticed  that  the  estuary 
in  which  the  yacht  lay  was  the  same  estuary  which 
he  had  seen  not  long  before  from  the  garden  of  the 
house  stated  by  Audrey  to  be  her  own,  and  he  ought 
to  have  commented  eagerly  on  the  marvellous  coinci- 
dence. Happily,  he  had  not  yet  done  so — no  doubt 
because  he  had  spent  most  of  the  time  in  bed.  If  and 
when  he  did  so  there  would  naturally  be  an  excited 
outcry  and  a  heavy  rain  of  amazed  questions  which 
simply  could  not  be  answered. 

"I  am  going  almost  at  once  to  call  on  my  little  friend 
Audrey  Moze,  at  Flank  Hall,"  said  Madame  Piriac. 
"The  house  looks  delicious  from  the  deck.  If  you  will 
come  up,  I  will  show  it  to  you.  It  is  precisely  like 
the  picture  postcard  which  the  dear  little  one  sent 
to  me  last  year.  Are  you  ready  to  come  with  me.?'* 
"But,  darling,  hadn't  you  better  go  alone.'"' 
"But  certainly  not,  darling!  You  are  not  serious. 
The  meeting  will  be  very  agitating.  With  a  third  per- 
son, however,  it  will  be  less  so.  I  count  on  you  abso- 
lutely, as  I  have  said  already.  Nay,  I  insist.  I  invoke 
your  friendship." 

"She  may  be  out.     She  may  be  away  altogether." 
"In  that  case  we  shall  return,"  said  Madame  Piriac 
briefly,  and,  not  giving  Audrey  time  to  reply  further, 
she  vanished,  with  a  firm  carriage  and  an  obstinate  look 
in  her  eyes,  towards  the  sleeping-cabins. 

The  next  instant  Mr.   Gilman  himself  entered  the 
saloon. 


AGUILAR'S  DOUBLE  LIFE  293 

"Mrs.  MoncreifF,"  he  started  nervously,  in  a  confi- 
dential and  deprecating  tone,  "this  is  the  first  chance 
I  have  had  to  tell  you.  We  came  into  Mozewater  with- 
out my  orders.  I  won't  say  against  my  orders,  but 
certainly  not  with  them.  On  the  plea  that  I  had  re- 
tired, Captain  Wyatt  changed  our  destination  last 
night  without  going  through  the  formality  of  consult- 
ing me.  We  ought  to  have  made  Harwich,  but  I  am 
now  told  that  we  were  running  short  of  paraffin,  and 
that  if  we  had  continued  to  Harwich  we  should  have 
had  the  worst  of  the  tide  against  us,  whereas  in  com- 
ing up  Mozewater  the  tide  helped  us ;  also  that  Captain 
Wyatt  did  not  care  about  trying  to  get  into  Harwich 
harbour  at  night  with  the  wind  in  its  present  quarter, 
and  rising  as  it  was  then.  Of  course,  Wyatt  is  re- 
sponsible for  the  safety  of  the  ship,  and  it  is  true 
that  I  had  her  designed  with  a  very  light  draught  on 
purpose  for  such  waters  as  Mozewater;  but  he  ought 
to  have  consulted  me.  We  might  get  away  again  on 
this  tide,  but  Hortense  will  not  hear  of  it.  She  has 
a  call  to  pay,  she  says.  I  can  only  tell  you  how  sorry 
I  am.  And  I  do  hope  you  will  forgive  me."  The 
sincerity  and  alarm  of  his  manly  apology  were  touch- 
ing. 

"But  Mr.  Oilman,"  said  Audrey,  with  the  simplicity 
which  more  and  more  she  employed  in  talking  to  her 
host,  "there  is  nothing  to  forgive.  What  can  it  mat- 
ter to  me  whether  we  come  here  or  go  to  Harwich.''" 

"I  thought,  I  was  afraid "  Mr.  Oilman  hesi- 
tated. "In  short  .  .  .  your  secret,  Mrs.  Moncreiff, 
which  you  asked  me  to  keep,  and  which  I  have  kept. 
It  was  here,  at  this  very  spot,  with  my  old  barge-yacht, 
that  I  first  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you.  And  I 
thought  .  .  .  perhaps  you  had  reasons.  .  .  .  How- 
ever, your  secret  is  safe." 


294  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"How  nice  you  are,  Mr.  Gilman !"  Audrey  said,  with 
a  gentle  smile.  "You're  kindness  itself.  But  there  is 
nothing  to  trouble  about,  really.  Keep  my  little  secret 
by  all  means,  if  you  don't  mind.  As  for  anything  else 
— that's  perfectly  all  right.  .  .  .  Shall  we  go  on 
deck.?" 

He  thanked  her  without  words. 

She  was  saying  to  herself,  rather  desperately; 

"After  all,  what  do  I  care?  I  haven't  committed 
a  crime.  It's  nobody's  business  but  my  own.  And 
I'm  worth  ten  million  francs.  And  if  the  fat's  in  the 
fire,  and  anything  is  found  out,  and  people  don't  like 
it — well,  they  must  do  the  other  thing." 

Thus  she  went  on  deck,  and  her  courage  was  re- 
warded by  the  discovery  of  a  chair  on  the  starboard 
side  of  the  deck-house,  from  which  she  could  not  pos- 
sibly be  seen  by  any  persons  on  the  Hard.  She  took 
this  chair  like  a  gift  from  heaven.  The  deck  was  busy 
enough.  Mr.  Price,  the  secretary,  was  making  entries 
in  an  account  book.  Dr.  Cromarty  was  pacing  to 
and  fro,  expectant.  Captain  Wyatt  was  arguing  with 
the  chauffeur  of  a  vast  motor-van  from  Clacton,  and 
another  motor-van  from  Colchester  was  also  present  on 
the  Hard.  Rows  of  paraffin  cans  were  ranged  against 
the  engine-room  hatchway,  and  the  odour  of  paraffin 
was  powerfully  conflicting  with  the  odour  of  ozone 
and  possibly  ammonia  from  the  marshes.  Parcels  kept 
coming  down  by  hand  from  the  village  of  Moze.  Fresh 
water  also  came  in  barrels  on  a  lorry,  and  lumps  of  ice 
in  a  dog-cart.  The  arrival  of  six  bottles  of  aspirin, 
brought  by  a  heated  boy  on  a  bicycle,  from  Clacton, 
and  seized  with  gusto  by  Dr.  Cromarty,  completed  the 
proof  that  money  will  not  only  buy  anything  but  will 
infallibly  draw  it  to  any  desired  spot,  however  out  of 
the  way  the  spot  may  be.     The  probability  was  that 


AGUILAR'S  DOUBLE  LIFE  295 

neither  paraffin  nor  ice  nor  aspirin  had  ever  found  itself 
on  Louscy  Hard  before  in  the  annals  of  the  world.  Yet 
now  these  things  foregathered  with  ease  and  natural- 
ness owing  to  the  magic  of  the  word  "yacht"  in  tele- 
grams. 

And  over  the  scene  floated  the  wavy,  inspiring  folds 
of  the  yacht's  immense  blue  ensign,  with  the  Union 
Jack  in  the  top  inside  corner. 

Mr.  Price  went  into  the  deck-house  and  began  to 
count  money. 

"Mr.  Price,"  demanded  Mr.  Gilman  urgently,  "did 
you  look  up  the  facts  about  this  village?" 

"I  was  just  looking  up  the  place  in  'East  Coast 
Tours,'  sir,  when  the  paraffin  arrived,"  replied  Mr. 
Price.  "It  says  that  Moze  is  mentioned  in  'Green's 
Short  History  of  the  English  people.'  " 

"Ah!  Very  interesting.  That  work  is  a  classic. 
It  really  treats  of  the  English  people,  and  not  solely 
of  their  kings  and  queens.  Dr.  Cromarty,  Mr.  Price 
is  busy,  will  you  mind  bringing  me  the  catalogue  of 
the  library  up  here.?" 

Dr.  Cromarty  obeyed,  and  Mr.  Gilman  examined  the 
typewritten,  calf-bound  volume. 

"Yes,"  said  he.  "Yes.  I  thought  we  had  Green 
on  board,  and  we  have.  I  should  like  extremely  to 
know  what  Green  says  about  Moze.  It  must  have  been 
in  the  Anglo-Saxon  or  Norman-  period.  Dr.  Cromarty, 
will  you  mind  bringing  me  up  the  first  three  volumes 
of  Green.?  You  will  find  them  on  shelf  Z8.  Also  the 
last  volume,  for  the  index." 

A  few  moments  later  Mr.  Gilman,  with  three  vol- 
umes of  Green  on  his  knees  and  one  in  his  hand,  said 
reproachfully  to  Mr.  Price: 

"Mr.  Price,  I  requested  you  to  see  that  the  leaves 


296  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

of  all  our  books  were  cut.  These  volumes  are  abso- 
lutely uncut." 

"Well,  sir,  I'm  working  through  them  as  fast  as  I 
can.     But  I  haven't  got  to  shelf  Z8  yet." 

"I  cannot  stop  to  cut  them  now,"  said  Mr.  Gilman, 
politely  displeased.  "What  a  pity !  It  would  have 
been  highly  instructive  to  know  what  Green  says  about 
Moze.  I  always  like  to  learn  everything  I  can  about 
the  places  we  stop  at.  And  this  place  must  be  full  of 
historic  interest.  Wyatt,  have  you  had  that  paraffin 
counted  properly.'"'  He  spoke  very  coldly  to  the  Cap- 
tain. 

It  thus  occurred  that  what  John  Richard  Green 
said  about  Moze  was  never  known  on  board  the  yacht 
A  riadne. 

Audrey  listened  to  the  episode  in  a  reverie.  She 
was  thinking  about  Musa's  intractability  and  Inexcus- 
able rudeness,  and  about  what  she  should  do  in  the 
matter  of  Madame  Pirlac's  impending  visit  to  Audrey 
Moze  at  Flank  Hall,  and  through  the  texture  of  these 
difficult  topics  she  could  see,  as  it  were,  shining  the 
sprightly  simplicity,  the  utter  ingenuousness,  the  en- 
tirely reliable  fidelity  of  Mr.  Gilman.  She  felt,  rather 
than  consciously  realized,  that  he  was  a  dull  man.  But 
she  liked  his  dullness ;  it  reassured  her ;  it  was  tran- 
quillising;  it  was  even  adorable.  She  liked  also  his 
attitude  towards  Moze.  She  had  never  suspected,  no 
one  had  ever  hinted  to  her,  that  Moze  was  full  of  his- 
toric interest.  But  looking  at  it  now  from  the  yacht 
which  had  miraculously  wafted  her  past  the  Flank 
Buoy  at  dead  of  night,  she  perceived  Moze  in  a  quite 
new  aspect — a  pleasure  which  she  owed  to  Mr.  Gil- 
man's  artless  interest  in  things.  (Not  that  he  was  art- 
less in  all  affairs !     No ;  in  the  great  masculine  affairs 


AGUILAR'S  DOUBLE  LIFE  297 

he  must  be  far  from  artless,  for  had  he  not  made  all 
his  money  himself?) 

Then  Madame  Piriac  appeared  on  deck,  armed  and 
determined.  Audrey  found,  as  hundreds  of  persons 
had  found,  that  it  was  impossible  to  deny  Madame 
Piriac.  Beautiful,  gracious,  elegant,  kind,  when  she 
would  have  a  thing  she  would  have  it,  Audrey  had 
to  descend  and  prepare  herself.  She  had  to  reascend 
ready  for  the  visit.  But  at  the  critical  and  dreadful 
moment  of  going  ashore  to  affront  the  crowd  she  had 
a  saving  idea.  She  pointed  to  Flank  Hall  and  its 
sloping  garden,  and  to  the  sea-wall  against  which  the 
high  spring-tide  was  already  washing,  and  she  sug- 
gested that  they  should  be  rowed  thither  in  the  dinghy 
instead  of  walking  around  by  the  sea-wall  or  through 
the  village. 

"But  we  cannot  climb  over  that  dyke,"  Madame 
Piriac  protested. 

"Oh,  yes,  we  can,"  said  Audrey.  "I  can  see  steps 
in  it  from  here,  and  I  can  see  a  gate  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden." 

"What  a  vision  you  have,  darling!"  murmured  Ma- 
dame Piriac.     "As  you  wish,  provided  we  get  there." 

The  dinghy,  at  Audrey's  request,  was  brought  round 
to  the  side  of  the  yacht  opposite  from  the  Hard,  and, 
screening  her  face  as  well  as  she  could  with  an  open 
parasol,  she  tripped  down  by  the  steps  into  it.  If  only 
Aguilar  was  away  from  the  premises  she  might  ^e 
saved,  for  the  place  would  be  shut  up,  and  there  would 
be  nothing  to  do  but  return.  Should  Madame  Piriac 
suggest  going  into  the  village  to  enquire — well,  Audrey 
would  positively  refuse  to  go  into  the  village.  Yes, 
she  would  refuse! 

As  the  boat  moved  away  from  the  yacht,  Musa 
showed  himself  on  deck.     Madame  Piriac  signalled  to 


298  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

him  a  salutation  of  the  finest  good-humour.  She  had 
forgotten  his  pettishness.  By  absolutely  ignoring  it 
she  had  made  it  as  though  it  had  never  existed.  This 
was  her  art.  Audrey,  observing  the  gesture,  and 
Musa's  smiling  reply  to  it,  acquired  wisdom.  She 
saw  that  she  must  treat  Musa  as  Madame  Piriac  treated 
him.  She  had  undertaken  the  enterprise  of  launching 
him  on  a  tremendous  artistic  career,  and  she  must 
carry  it  through.  She  wanted  to  make  a  neat,  clean 
job  of  the  launching,  and  she  would  do  it  dispassion- 
ately, like  a  good  workwoman.  He  had  admitted — 
nay,  he  had  insisted — that  she  was  necessary  to  him. 
Her  pride  in  that  fact  had  a  somewhat  superior  air. 
He  might  be  the  most  marvellous  of  violinists,  but  he 
was  also  a  child,  helpless  without  her  moral  support. 
She  would  act  accordingly.  It  was  absurd  to  be  angry 
with  a  child,  no  matter  what  his  vagaries.  .  .  .  At 
this  juncture  of  her  reflections  she  noticed  that  Mr. 
Gilman  and  Miss  Thompkins  had  quitted  the  yacht 
together  and  were  walking  seawards.  They  seemed 
very  intimate,  impregnated  with  mutual  understanding. 
And  Audrey  was  sorry  that  Mr.  Gilman  was  quite  so 
simple,  quite  so  straightforward   and  honest. 

When  the  dinghy  arrived  at  the  sea-wall  Audrey 
won  the  startled  admiration  of  the  sailor  in  charge  of 
the  boat  by  pointing  at  once  to  the  best — if  not  the 
only — place  fit  for  a  landing.  The  sailor  was  by  no 
means  accustomed  to  such  flair  in  a  yacht's  guests . 
Indeed,  it  had  often  astonished  him  that  people  who, 
as  a  class,  had  so  little  notion  of  how  to  get  into  or 
out  of  a  dinghy  could  have  succeeded,  as  they  all  ap- 
parently had,  in  any  department  of  life. 

With  continuing  skill,  Audrey  guided  Madame  Piriac 
over  the  dyke  and  past  sundry  other  obstacles,  includ- 
ing a  water-course,  to  a  gate  in  the  wall  which  formed 


AGUILAR'S  DOUBLE  LIFE  299 

the  frontier  of  the  grounds  of  Flank  Hall.  The  gate 
seemed  at  first  to  be  unopenably  fastened,  but  Audrey 
showed  that  she  possessed  a  genius  with  gates,  and 
opened  it  with  a  twist  of  the  hand.  They  wandered 
through  a  plantation  and  then  through  an  orchard, 
and  at  length  saw  the  house.  There  was  not  a  sign 
of  Aguilar,  but  the  unseen  yard  dog  began  to  bark, 
hearing  which,  Madame  Piriac  observed  in  French: 

"The  property  seems  a  little  neglected,  but  there 
must  be  some  one  at  home." 

"Aguilar  is  bound  to  come  now !"  thought  Audrey. 
"And  I  am  lost!"  Then  she  added  to  herself:  "And 
I  don't  care  if  I  am  lost.     What  an  unheard-of  lark!" 

And  to  Madame  Piriac  she  said  lightly: 

"Well,  we  must  explore." 

The  blinds  were  nearly  all  up  on  the  garden-front. 
And  one  window — the  French  window  of  the  drawing- 
room — was  wide  open. 

"The  crisis  will  be  here  in  one  minute  at  the  latest," 
thought  Audrey. 

"Evidently  Miss  Moze  is  at  home,"  said  Madame 
Piriac,  gazing  at  the  house.  "Yes,  it  is  distinguished. 
It  is  what  I  had  expected.  .  .  .  But  ought  we  not  to 
go  to  the  front  door.'^" 

"I  think  we  ought,"  Audrey  agreed. 

They  went  round  the  side  of  the  house,  into  the  main 
drive,  and  without  hesitation  Madame  Piriac  rang  the 
front  door-bell,  which  they  could  plainly  hear.  "I 
must  have  my  cards  ready,"  said  she,  opening  her  bag. 
"One  always  hears  how  exigent  you  are  in  England 
about  such  details,  even  in  the  provinces.  And,  indeed, 
why  not?" 

There  was  no  answer  to  the  bell.  Madame  Piriac 
rang  again,  and  there  was  still  no  answer.  And  the 
dog  had  ceased  to  bark. 


300  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

*'Mon  Dieu!"  she  muttered.  "Have  you  observed, 
darling,  that  all  the  blinds  are  down  on  this  fa9ade?" 

She  rang  a  third  time.  Then,  without  a  word,  they 
returned  slowly  to  the  garden-front. 

"How  mj'stcrious !  Mon  Dieu!  How  English  it  all 
is !"  muttered  Madame  Piriac.     "It  gives  me  fear." 

Audrey  had  almost  decided  definitely  that  she  was 
saved  when  she  happened  to  glance  through  the  open 
window  of  the  drawing-room.  She  thought  she  saw 
a  flicker  within.  She  looked  again.  She  could  not  be 
mistaken.  Then  she  noticed  that  all  the  dust  sheets 
had  been  removed  from  the  furniture,  that  the  carpet 
had  been  laid,  that  a  table  had  been  set  for  tea,  that 
there  were  flowers  and  china  and  a  teapot  and  bread- 
and-butter  and  a  kettle  and  a  spirit-lamp  on  the  table. 
The  flicker  was  the  flicker  of  the  blue  flame  of  the 
spirit-lamp.     The  kettle  over  it  was  puffing  out  steam. 

Audrey  exclaimed,  within  herself: 

"Aguilar!" 

She  had  caught  him  at  last.  There  were  two  cups- 
and-saucers — the  best  ancient  blue-and-white  china,  out 
of  the  glass-fronted  china  cupboard  in  that  very  room ! 
The  celibate  Aguilar,  never  known  to  consort  with  any- 
body at  all,  was  clearly  about  to  entertain  some  one 
to  tea,  and  the  aspect  of  things  showed  that  he  meant 
to  do  it  very  well.  True,  there  was  no  cake,  but  the 
bread-and-butter  was  expertly  cut  and  attractively  ar- 
ranged. Audrey  felt  sure  that  she  was  on  the  track 
of  Aguilar's  double  life,  and  that  a  woman  was  con- 
cerned therein.  She  was  angry,  but  she  was  also 
enormously  amused  and  uplifted.  She  no  longer  cared 
the  least  bit  about  the  imminent  danger  threatening 
her  incognito.  Her  sole  desire  was  to  entrap  Aguilar, 
and  with  deep  joy  she  pictured  his  face  when  he  should 


AGUILAR'S  DOUBLE  LIFE  301 

come  into  the  room  with  his  friend  and  find  the  mistress 
of  the  house  already  installed. 

"I  think  we  had  better  go  in  here,  darling,"  she  said 
to  Madame  Piriac,  with  her  hand  on  the  French  win- 
dow.    "There  is  no  other  entrance." 

Madame  Piriac  looked  at  her. 

"Eh  bien!  It  is  your  country,  not  mine.  You  know 
the  habits.  I  follow  you,"  said  Madame  Piriac  calmly. 
"After  all,  my  dear  little  Audrey  ought  to  be  delighted 
to  see  me.  I  have  several  times  told  her  that  I  should 
come.  All  the  same,  I  expected  to  announce  myself. 
.  .  .  What  a  charming  room!  So  this  is  the  English 
provinces !" 

The  room  was  certainly  agreeable  to  the  eye.  And 
Audrey  seemed  to  see  it  afresh,  to  see  it  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life.  And  she  thought:  "Can  this  be  the 
shabby  old  drawing-room  that  I  hated  so.^*" 

The  kettle  continued  to  puff  vigorously. 

"If  they  don't  come  soon,"  said  Audrey,  "the  water 
will  be  all  boiled  away  and  the  kettle  burnt.  Suppose 
we  make  the  tea?" 

Madame  Piriac  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"It  is  your  country,"  she  repeated.  "That  appears 
to  be  singular,  but  I  have  not  the  English  habits." 

And  she  sat  down,  smiling. 

Audrey  opened  the  tea-caddy,  put  three  spoonfuls 
of  tea  into  the  pot,  and  made  the  tea. 

The  clock  struck  on  the  mantelpiece.  The  clock  was 
actually  going.  Aguilar  was  ever  thorough  in  his 
actions. 

"Four  minutes  to  brew,  and  if  they  don't  come  we'll 
have  tea,"  said  Audrey,  tranquil  in  the  assurance  that 
the  advent  of  Aguilar  could  not  now  be  long  delayed. 

"Do  you  take  milk  and  sugar,  darling?"  she  asked 
Madame  Piriac  at  the  end  of  the  four  minutes,  which 


302  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

they  had  spent  mainly  in  a  curious  silence.  "I  believe 
you  do." 

Madame  Piriac  nodded. 

"A  little  bread-and-butter.?  I'm  sorry  there's  no 
cake  or  jam." 

It  was  while  Madame  Piriac  was  stirring  her  first 
cup  that  the  drawing-room  door  opened,  and  at  once 
there  was  a  terrific  shriek. 

"Audrey !" 

The  invader  was  Miss  Ingate.  Close  behind  Miss 
Ingate  came  Jane  Foley. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 


THE  TANK-ROOM 


«1 


*DrD  you  get  my  letter?"  breathed  Miss  Ingate 
weakly,  after  she  had  a  little  recovered  from  the  shock, 
which  had  the  appearance  of  being  terrific. 

"No,"  said  Audrey.  "How  could  I?  We're  yacht- 
ing. Madame  Piriac,  you  know  Miss  Ingate,  don't 
you.''  And  this  is  my  friend  Jane  Foley."  She  spoke 
quite  easily  and  naturally,  though  Miss  Ingate  in  her 
intense  agitation  had  addressed  her  as  Audrey,  whereas 
the  Christian  name  of  Mrs.  MoncreifF,  on  the  rare 
occasions  when  a  Christian  name  became  necessary  or 
advisable,  had  been  Olivia — or,  infrequently,  Olive. 

"Yachting !" 

"Yes.     Haven't  you  seen  the  yacht  at  the  Hard.''" 

"No!  I  did  hear  something  about  it,  but  I've  been 
too  busy  to  run  after  yachts.  We've  been  too  busy, 
haven't  we,  Miss  Foley.?  I  even  have  to  keep  my  dog 
locked  up.  I  don't  know  what  you'll  say.  Aud — 
Mrs.  Moncreiff !  I  really  don't !  But  we  acted  for  the 
best.  Oh !  How  dreadfully  exciting  my  life  does  get 
at  times !  Never  since  I  played  the  barrel  organ  all 
the  way  down  Regent  Street  have  I !     Oh !  dear !" 

"Have  my  tea,  and  do  sit  down,  Winnie,  and  remem- 
ber you're  an  Essex  woman!"  Audrey  adjured  her, 
going  to  the  china  cupboard  to  get  more  cups. 

"I'll  just  tell  you  all  about  it,  Mrs.  MoncreifF,  if 
you'll  let  me,"  Jane  Foley  began  with  a  serene  and 
happy  smile,  as  she  limped  to  a  chair.     "I'm  quite 

303 


804.     .  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

ready  to  take  all  the  consequences.  It's  the  police 
again,  that's  all.  I  don't  know  how  exactly  they  got 
on  the  track  of  the  Spatts  at  Frinton.  But  I  daresay 
you've  seen  that  the  police  have  seized  a  lot  of  docu- 
ments at  our  headquarters.  Perhaps  that  explains  it. 
Anyway  I  caught  sight  of  our  old  friend  at  Paget 
Gardens  nosing  about,  and  so  as  soon  as  it  was  dark  I 
left  the  Spatts.  It's  a  horrid  thing  to  say,  but  I  never 
was  so  glad  about  anything  as  I  was  at  leaving  the 
Spatts.  I  didn't  tell  them  where  I  was  going,  and  they 
didn't  ask.  I'm  sure  the  poor  things  were  very  relieved 
to  have  me  go.  Miss  Ingate  tells  me  to-day  she's  heard 
they've  both  resigned  from  the  Union.  Mr.  Spatt  went 
up  to  London  on  purpose  to  do  it.  And  can  you  be 
surprised.'' 

"Yes,  you  can,  and  yet  you  can't !"  exclaimed  Miss 
Ingate.     "You  can,  and  yet  you  can't !" 

"I  met  Miss  Ingate  on  Frinton  front,"  Jane  Foley 
proceeded.  "She  was  just  getting  into  her  carriage. 
I  had  my  bag  and  I  asked  her  to  drive  me  to  the  station. 
'To  the  station.?'  she  said.  'What  for.?  There's  no 
train  to-night.'  " 

"No  more  there  wasn't!"  Miss  Ingate  put  in,  "I'd 
been  dining  at  the  Proctors'  and  it  was  after  ten,  I 
know  it  was  after  ten  because  they  never  let  me  leave 
until  after  ten,  in  spite  of  the  long  drive  I  have.  Fancy 
there  being  a  train  from  Frinton  after  ten!  So  of 
course  I  brought  Miss  Foley  along.  Oh !  It  was  vehy 
interesting.  Vehy  interesting.  You  see  we  had  to  think 
of  the  police.  I  didn't  want  the  police  coming  poking 
round  my  house.  It  would  never  do,  in  a  little  place 
like  Moze.  I  should  never  hear  the  last  of  it.  So  I — 
I  thought  of  Flank  Hall.    I " 

Jane  Foley  went  on: 

"Miss  Ingate  was  sure  you  wouldn't  mind,  Mrs.  Mon- 


THE  TANK-ROOM  305 

creiff.  And  personally  I  was  quite  certain  you  wouldn't 
mind.  We  left  the  carriage  at  Miss  Ingate's,  and 
carried  the  bag  in  turns.  And  I  stood  outside  while 
Miss  Ingate  woke  up  Mr.  Aguilar.  It  was  soon  all 
right." 

"I  must  say  Aguilar  was  vehy  reasonable,"  said  Miss 
Ingate.  "Vehy  reasonable.  And  he's  got  a  great  spite 
against  my  dear  Inspector  Keeble.  He  suggested 
everything.  He  never  asked  any  questions,  so  I  told 
him.  You  do,  you  know.  He  suggested  Miss  Foley 
should  have  a  bed  in  the  tank-room,  so  that  if  there 
was  any  trouble  all  the  bedrooms  should  look  innocent." 
"Did  he  tell  you  I'd  come  here  to  see  him  not  long 
since.'"'  Audrey  demanded. 

"And  why  didn't  you  pop  in  to  see  me?    I  was  hurt 
when  I  got  your  note." 
"Did  he  tell  you.?" 

"Of  course  he  didn't.  He  never  tells  anybody  any- 
thing. That  sort  of  thing's  very  useful  at  times,  espe- 
cially when  it's  combined  with  a  total  lack  of  curiosity. 
He  fixed  everything  up.  And  he  keeps  the  gates  locked, 
so  that  people  can't  wander  in." 

"He  didn't  lock  the  gate  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden, 
because  it  won't  lock,"  said  Audrey.  "And  so  he  didn't 
keep  me  from  wandering  in."  She  felt  rather  disap- 
pointed that  Aguilar  should  once  more  have  escaped 
her  reproof  and  that  the  dream  of  his  double  life  should 
have  vanished  away,  but  she  was  determined  to  prove 
that  he  was  not  perfect. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Miss  Ingate. 
"It  wouldn't  startle  me  to  hear  that  he  knew  you  were 
intending  to  come.  All  I  know  is  that  Miss  Foley's 
been  here  for  several  days.  Not  a  soul  knows  except 
me  and  Aguilar.  And  it  seems  to  get  safer  every  day. 
She  does  venture  about  the  house  now,  though  she  never 


306  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

goes  into  the  garden  while  it's  light.  It  was  Aguilar 
had  the  idea  of  putting  this  room  straight  for  her." 

"And  it  was  he  who  cut  the  bread-and-butter,"  added 
Jane  Foley. 

"And  this  was  to  be  our  first  tea-party !"  Miss  Ingate 
half  shrieked.  "I'd  come — I  do  come,  you  know,  to 
keep  an  eye  on  things  as  you  asked  me — I'd  come,  and 
we  were  just  having  a  cosy  little  chat  in  the  tank-room. 
Aguilar's  gone  to  Colchester  to  get  a  duplicate  key 
of  the  front-gates.  He  left  me  his,  so  I  could  get  in 
and  lock  up  after  myself,  and  he  put  the  water  on  to 
boil  before  leaving.  I  said  to  Miss  Foley,  I  said,  up 
in  the  tank-room:  'Was  that  a  ring  at  the  door.?' 
But  she  said  it  wasn't." 

"I've  been  a  little  deaf  since  I  was  in  prison,"  said 
Jane  Foley. 

"And  now  we  come  down  and  find  you  here!  I — I 
hope  I've  done  right."  This,  falteringly,  from  Miss 
Ingate. 

"Of  course  you  have,  you  silly  old  thing,"  Audrey 
reassured  her.     "It's  splendid!" 

"Whenever  I  think  of  the  police  I  laugh,"  said  Miss 
Ingate  in  an  unsettled  voice.  "I  can't  help  it.  They 
can't  possibly  suspect.  And  they're  looking  every- 
where, everywhere !  I  can't  help  laughing."  And  sud- 
denly she  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh!  Now!  Winnie,  dear.  Don't  spoil  it  all!" 
Audrey  protested,  jumping  up. 

Madame  Piriac,  who  had  hitherto  maintained  the 
most  complete  passivity,  restrained  her. 

"Leave  her  tranquil!"  murmured  Madame  Piriac  in 
French.  "She  is  not  spoiling  it.  On  the  contrary! 
One  is  content  to  see  that  she  is  a  woman !" 

And  then  Miss  Ingate  laughed,  and  blushed,  and 
called  herself  names. 


THE  TANK-ROOM  307 

"And  so  you  haven't  had  my  letter,"  said  she.  "I 
wish  you  had  had  it.  But  what  is  this  yachting  busi- 
ness.'' I  never  heard  of  such  goings-on.  Is  it  your 
yacht.''  This  world  is  getting  a  bit  too  wonderful  for 
me." 

The  answer  to  these  questions  was  cut  short  by 
rather  heavy  masculine  footsteps  approaching  the  door 
of  the  drawing-room.  Miss  Ingate  grew  instantly  seri- 
ous. Audrey  and  Jane  looked  at  each  other,  and  Jane 
Foley  went  quickly  but  calmly  to  the  door  and  opened 
it. 

"Oh  !  It's  Mr.  Aguilar — returned  !"  she  said,  quietly. 
"Is  anything  the  matter,  Mr.  Aguilar.'"' 

Aguilar,  hat  in  hand,  entered  the  room. 

"Good  afternoon,  Aguilar,"  Audrey  greeted  him. 

"  'Noon,  madam,"  he  responded,  exactly  as  though 
he  had  been  expecting  to  find  the  mistress  there.  "It's 
like  this.  I've  just  seen  Inspector  Keeble  and  that 
there  detective  as  was  here  afore — you  know,  madam," 
(nodding  to  Audrey)  "and  I  fancy  they're  a-coming 
this  way,  so  I  thought  I  better  cut  back  and  warn  ye. 
I  don't  think  they  saw  me.  I  was  too  quick  for  'em. 
Was  the  bread-and-butter  all  right,  Miss  Ingate.? 
Thank  ye." 

Miss  Ingate  had  risen. 

"I  ought  to  go  home,"  she  said.  "I  feel  sure  it  would 
be  wiser  for  me  to  go  home.  I  never  could  talk  to 
detectives." 

Jane  Foley  snatched  at  one  of  the  four  cups  and 
saucers  on  the  table,  and  put  it  back,  all  unwashed, 
into  the  china  cupboard. 

"Three  cups  will  be  enough  for  them  to  see,  if  they 
come,"  she  said  with  a  bright  happy  smile  to  Audrey. 
"Yes,  Miss  Ingate,  you  go  home.  I'm  ever  so  much 
obliged  to  you.      Now,  I'll  go  upstairs  and  Aguilar 


808  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

shall  lock  me  In  the  tank-room  and  push  the  key  under 
the  door.  We  are  causing  you  a  lot  of  trouble,  Mrs. 
MoncreifF,  but  you  won't  mind.  It  might  hare  been 
so  much  worse."     She  laughed  as  she  went. 

"And  suppose  I  meet  those  police  on  the  way  out, 
what  am  I  to  say  to  them?"  asked  Miss  Ingate  when 
Jane  Foley  and  Aguilar  had  departed. 

"If  they're  very  curious,  tell  them  you've  been  here 
to  have  tea  with  me  and  that  Aguilar  cut  the  bread- 
and-butter,"  Audrey  replied.  "The  detective  will  be 
interested  to  see  me.  He  chased  me  all  the  way  to 
London  not  long  since.     Au  revoir,  Winnie." 

"Dear  friend,"  said  Madame  Piriac,  with  admirable 
though  false  calm.  "Would  it  not  be  more  prudent 
to  fly  back  at  once  to  the  yacht — if  in  truth  this  is  the 
same  police-agent  of  whom  you  recounted  to  me  with 
such  drollness  the  exploits.''  It  is  not  that  I  am 
afraid " 

"Nor  I,"  said  Audrey.  "There  is  no  danger  except 
to  Jane  Foley." 

"Ah!  You  cannot  abandon  her.  That  is  true. 
Nevertheless  I  regret  ..." 

"Well,  darling,"  Audrey  exclaimed.  "You  would  in- 
sist on  my  coming!" 

The  continuing  presence  of  Miss  Ingate,  who  had 
lost  one  glove  and  her  purse,  rendered  this  brief  con- 
versation somewhat  artificial.  And  no  sooner  had  Miss 
Ingate  got  away,  by  the  window — for  the  sake  of  dis- 
patch, than  a  bell  made  itself  heard  and  Aguilar  came 
back  to  the  drawing-room  in  the  role  of  butler. 

"Inspector  Keeble  and  a  gentleman  to  see  you, 
Madam." 

"Bring  them  in,"  said  Audrey. 

Aguilar's  secret  glance  at  Inspector  Keeble  as  he 
brought  in  the  visitors  showed  that  his  life-long  and 


THE  TANK-ROOM  309 

harmless  enemy  had  very  little  to  hope  from  his  good- 
will. 

"Wait  a  moment,  you!'*  called  the  detective  as 
Aguilar  like  a  perfect  butler  was  vanishing.  "Good 
afternoon,  ladies.  Excuse  me,  I  wish  to  question  this 
man."  He  indicated  Aguilar  with  a  gesture  of  apolo- 
gising for  Aguilar. 

Inspector  Keeble,  an  overgrown  mass  of  rectitude 
and  kindliness,  greeted  Audrey  with  that  constraint 
which  always  afflicted  him  when  he  was  beneath  any 
roof  more  splendid  than  that  of  his  own  police-station. 

"Now,  Aguilar,"  said  the  detective.  "It's  you  that'll 
be  telling  me.  Ye've  got  a  woman  concealed  in  the 
hou'se.     Where  is  she?" 

He  knew,  then,  this  ferreting  and  divinatory  Irish- 
man !  Of  course  Miss  Ingate  must  have  committed 
some  indiscretion,  or  was  it  that  Aguilar  was  less 
astute  than  he  gave  the  impression  of  being?  Audrey 
considered  that  all  was  lost,  and  she  was  aware  of  a 
most  unpleasant  feeling  of  helplessness  and  inefficiency. 
Then  she  seemed  to  receive  inspiration  and  optimism 
from  somewhere?  She  knew  not  exactly  from  where, 
but  perhaps  it  was  from  the  shy  stiffness  of  the  de- 
meanour of  her  old  acquaintance  Inspector  Keeble. 
Moreover,  the  Irishman's  twinkling  eyes  were  a  chal- 
lenge to  her. 

"Oh !  Aguilar !"  she  exclaimed.  "I'm  very  sorry  to 
hear  this.  I  knew  women  were  always  your  danger,  but 
I  never  dreamt  you  would  start  carrying  on  in  my 
absence." 

Aguilar  fronted  her,  and  their  eyes  met.  Audrey 
gazed  at  him  steadily.  There  was  no  smile  in  Audrey's 
eyes,  but  there  was  a  smile  glimmering  mysteriously 
behind  them,  and  after  a  couple  of  seconds  this  phe- 
nomenon aroused  a  similar  phenomenon  behind  the  eyes 


310  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

of  Aguilar.  Audrey  had  the  terrible  and  god-like  sen- 
sation of  lifting  a  hired  servant  to  equality  with  her- 
self. She  Imagined  that  she  would  never  again  be  able 
to  treat  him  as  Aguilar,  and  she  even  feared  that  she 
would  soon  begin  to  cease  to  hate  him.  At  the  same 
time  she  observed  slight  signs  of  Incertitude  in  the 
demeanour  of  the  detective. 

Aguilar  replied  coldly,  not  to  Audrey,  but  to  the 
police : 

"If  Inspector  Keeble  or  anybody  else  has  been  mixing 
my  name  up  with  any  scandal  about  females,  I'll  have 
him  up  for  slander  and  libel  and  damages  as  sure  I 
stand  here." 

Inspector  Keeble  looked  away,  and  then  looked  at 
the  detective — as  If  for  support  in  peril. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  Aguilar,  that  you  haven't  got 
a  woman  hidden  in  the  house  at  this  very  moment.?" 
the  detective  demanded. 

"I'll  thank  ye  to  keep  a  civil  tongue  In  your  head," 
said  Aguilar.  "Or  I'll  take  ye  outside  and  knock  yer 
face  sideways.  Pardon  me,  madam.  Of  course  I  ain't 
got  no  woman  concealed  on  the  premises.  And  mark 
ye.  If  I  lose  my  place  through  this,  ye'll  hear  of  it. 
And  I  shall  put  a  letter  In  The  Gardener's  Chronicle, 
too." 

"Well,  ye  can  go,"  the  detective  responded. 

"Yes,"  sneered  Aguilar.  "I  can  go.  Yes,  and  I 
shall  go.  But  not  so  far  but  what  I  can  protect  my 
interests.  And  I'll  make  this  village  too  hot  for  Keeble 
before  I've  done,  police  or  no  police." 

And  with  a  look  at  Audrey  like  the  look  of  a  knight 
at  his  lady  after  a  joust,  Aguilar  turned  to  leave  the 
room. 

"Aguilar,"  Audrey  rewarded  him.  "You  needn't  be 
afraid  about  your  place." 


THE  TANK-ROOM  311 


» 


"Thank  ye,  m'm. 

"May  I  ask  what  your  name  is?"  Audrey  enquired 
of  the  detective  as  soon  as  Aguilar  had  shut  the  door. 

"Hurley,"  replied  the  detective. 

"I  thought  it  might  be,"  said  Audrey,  sitting  down, 
but  not  offering  seats.  "Well,  ]\Ir.  Hurley,  after  all 
your  running  after  Miss  Susan  Foley,  don't  you  think 
it's  rather  unfair  to  say  horrid  things  about  a  respect- 
able man  like  Aguilar?  You  were  funny  about  that 
stout  wife  of  yours  last  time  I  saw  you,  but  you  must 
remember  that  Aguilar  can't  be  funny  about  his  wife, 
because  he  hasn't  got  one." 

"I  really  don't  know  what  you're  driving  at,  miss," 
said  Mr.  Hurley  simply. 

"Well,  what  were  you  driving  at  when  you  followed 
me  all  the  way  to  London  the  other  day  ?" 

"Madam,"  said  Mr.  Hurley.  "I  didn't  follow  you 
to  London.  I  only  happened  to  arrive  at  Charing 
Cross  about  twenty  seconds  after  you,  that  was  all. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  nearly  half  of  the  way  you  were 
following  me." 

"Well,  I  hope  you  were  satisfied." 

"I  only  want  to  know  one  thing,"  the  detective  re- 
torted.   "Am  I  speaking  to  Mrs.  Olivia  Moncreiff  ?" 

Audrey  hesitated,  glancing  at  Madame  Piriac,  who, 
in  company  with  the  vast  Inspector  Keeble,  was  care- 
fully inspecting  the  floor.  She  invoked  wisdom  and 
sagacity  from  heaven,  and  came  to  a  decision. 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  she  answered. 

"Then,  if  you  please,  who  are  you?" 

"What!"  exclaimed  Audrey.  "You're  In  the  village 
of  Moze  itself  and  you  ask  who  I  am.  Everybody 
knows  me.  My  name  is  Audrey  Moze,  of  Flank  Hall, 
Moze,  Essex.  Any  child  in  Moze  Street  will  tell  you 
■that.     Inspector  Keeble  knows  as  well  as  anybody." 


312  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Madame  PIrlac  proceeded  steadily  with  the  enquiry 
into  the  carpet.     Audrey  felt  her  heart  beating. 

"Unmarried  .P"  pursued  the  detective. 

"Most  decidedly,"  said  Audrey  with  conviction. 

"Then  what's  the  meaning  of  that  ring  on  your 
finger,  if  you  don't  mind  my  asking .?"  the  detective 
continued. 

Certainly  Audrey  was  flustered,  but  only  for  a 
moment. 

"Mr.  Hurley,"  said  she.  "I  wear  It  as  a  protection 
from  men  of  all  ages  who  are  too  enterprising." 

She  spoke  archly,  with  humour;  but  now  there  was 
no  answering  humour  in  the  features  of  Mr.  Hurley, 
who  seemed  to  be  a  changed  man,  to  be  indeed  no  longer 
even  an  Irishman.  And  Audrey  grew  afraid.  Did  he 
after  all  know  of  her  share  in  the  Blue  City  enterprise.? 
She  had  long  since  persuaded  herself  that  the  police 
had  absolutely  failed  to  connect  her  with  that  affair, 
but  now  uncertainty  was  born  in  her  mind. 

"I  must  search  the  house,"  said  the  detective. 

"What  for?" 

"I  have  to  arrest  a  woman  named  Jane  Foley,"  an- 
swered Mr.  Hurley,  adding  somewhat  grimly:  "The 
name  will  be  known  to  ye,  I'm  thinking.  .  .  .  And  I 
have  reason  to  believe  that  she  is  now  concealed  on 
these  premises." 

The  directness  of  the  blow  was  terrific.  It  was 
almost  worse  than  the  blow  itself.  And  Audrey  now 
believed  everything  that  she  had  ever  heard  or  read 
about  the  miraculous  ingenuity  of  detectives.  Still, 
she  did  not  regard  herself  as  beaten,  and  the  thought 
of  the  yacht  lying  close  by  gave  her  a  dim  feeling  of 
security.     If  she  could  only  procure  delay  .  .  .    ! 

"I'm  not  going  to  let  you  search  my  house,"  she  said 


THE  TANK-ROOM  313 

angrily.  "I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing!  You've  got 
no  right  to  search  my  house." 

"Oh  yes  I  have!"  Mr.  Hurley  insisted. 

"Well,  let  me  see  your  paper — I  don't  know  what 
you  call  it.  But  I  know  you  can't  do  anything  without 
a  paper.  Otherwise  any  bright  young  man  might  walk 
into  my  house  and  tell  me  he  meant  to  search  it. 
Keeble,  I'm  really  surprised  at  you." 

Inspector  Keeble  blushed. 

"I'm  very  sorry,  miss,"  said  he  contritely.  "But 
the  law  's  the  law.  Show  the  lady  your  search-warrant, 
Mr.  Hurley."     His  voice  resembled  himself. 

Mr,  Hurley  coughed.  "I  haven't  got  a  search-war- 
rant yet,"  he  remarked.     "I  didn't  expect " 

"You'd  better  go  and  get  one,  then,"  said  Audrey, 
calculating  how  long  it  would  take  three  women  to 
transport  themselves  from  the  house  to  the  yacht,  and 
perpending  upon  the  probable  behaviour  of  Mr.  Gilman 
under  a  given  set  of  circumstances. 

"I  will,"  said  Mr.  Hurley.  "And  I  shan't  be  long. 
Keeble,  where  is  the  nearest  justice  of  the  peace.''  .  .  . 
You'd  better  stay  here  or  hereabouts. 

"I  got  to  go  to  the  station  to  sign  on  my  three  con- 
stables," Inspector  Keeble  protested  awkwardly,  look- 
ing at  his  watch,  which  also  resembled  himself. 

"You'd  better  stay  here  or  hereabouts,"  repeated 
Mr.  Hurley,  and  he  moved  towards  the  door.  In- 
spector Keeble,  too,  moved  towards  the  door. 

Audrey  let  them  get  into  the  passage,  and  then  she 
was  vouchsafed  a  new  access  of  inspiration. 

"Mr.  Hurley,"  she  called,  in  a  bright,  unofFended 
tone.  "After  all  I  see  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't 
search  the  house.  I  don't  really  want  to  put  you  to 
any  unnecessary  trouble.  It  is  annoying,  but  I'm  not 
going  to  be  annoyed."     The  ingenuous  young  creature 


314  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

expected  Mr.  Hurley  to  be  at  once  disarmed  and 
ashamed  by  this  kind  offer.  She  was  wrong.  He  was 
evidently  surprised,  but  he  gave  no  evidence  of  shame 
or  of  the  sudden  death  in  his  brain  of  all  suspicions. 

"That's  better,"  he  said  calmly.  "And  I'm  much 
obliged." 

"I'll  come  with  you,"  said  Audrey.  "Madame 
Piriac,"  she  addressed  Hortense  with  averted  eyes. 
"Will  you  excuse  me  for  a  minute  or  two  while  I  show 
these  gentlemen  the  house?"  The  fact  was  that  she 
did  not  care  just  then  to  be  left  alone  with  Madame 
Piriac. 

"Oh!  I  beg  you,  darling!"  Madame  Piriac  granted 
the  permission  with  overpowering  sweetness. 

The  procedure  of  Mr.  Hurley  was  astonishing  to 
Audrey ;  nay,  it  was  unnerving.  First  he  locked  the 
front-door  and  the  garden-door  and  pocketed  the  keys. 
Then  he  locked  the  drawing-room  on  the  passage  side 
and  pocketed  that  key.  He  instructed  Inspector 
Keeble  to  remain  in  the  hall  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
He  next  went  into  the  kitchen  and  the  sculleries  and 
locked  the  outer  doors  in  that  quarter.  Then  he  de- 
scended to  the  cellars,  with  Audrey  always  in  his  wake. 
Having  searched  the  cellars  and  the  ground-floor,  he 
went  upstairs,  and  examined  in  turn  all  the  bedrooms 
with  a  thoroughness  and  particularity  which  caused 
Audrey  to  blush.  He  left  nothing  whatever  to  chance, 
and  no  dust-sheet  was  undisturbed.  Audrey  said  no 
word.  The  detective  said  no  word.  But  Audrey  kept 
thinking:  "He  is  getting  nearer  to  the  tank-room." 
A  small  staircase  led  to  the  attic-floor,  upon  which 
were  only  servants'  bedrooms  and  the  tank-room.  After 
he  had  mounted  this  staircase  and  gone  a  little  way 
along  the  passage  he  swiftly  and  without  warning 
dashed   back   and   down   the   staircase.      But  nothing 


THE  TANK-ROOM  315 

seemed  to  happen,  and  he  returned.  The  three  doors 
of  the  three  servants'  bedrooms  were  all  ajar.  Mr. 
Hurley  passed  each  of  them  with  a  careless  glance 
within.  At  the  end  of  the  corridor,  in  obscurity,  was 
the  door  of  the  tank-room. 

"What's  this.P"  he  asked  abruptly.  And  he  knocked 
nonchalantly  on  the  door  of  the  tank-room. 

Audrey  was  acutely  alarmed  lest  Jane  Foley  should 
respond,  thinking  the  knock  was  that  of  a  friend.  She 
saw  how  idiotic  she  had  been  not  to  warn  Jane  by 
means  of  loud  conversation  with  the  detective. 

"That's    the    tank-room,"    she    said    loudly.     "I'm 
afraid  it's  locked." 

"Oh!"  murmured  Mr.  Hurley  negligently,  and  he 
turned  the  searchlight  of  his  gaze  upon  the  three  bed- 
rooms, which  he  examined  as  carefully  as  he  had  ex- 
amined anything  in  the  house.  The  failure  to  discover 
in  any  cupboard  or  corner  even  the  shadow  of  a  human 
being  did  not  appear  to  discourage  him  in  the  slightest 
degree.  In  the  third  bedroom — that  is  to  say,  the  one 
nearest  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  furthest  from  the 
tank-room — he  suddenly  beckoned  to  Audrey,  who  was 
standing  in  the  doorway.  She  went  within  the  room 
and  he  pushed  the  door  to,  without,  however,  quite 
shutting  it. 

"Now  about  the  tank-room.  Miss  Moze,'  he  began 
quietly.    "You  say  it's  locked.'"' 

"Yes,"  said  the  quaking  Audrey. 

"As  a  matter  of  form,  I'd  better  just  look  in.  Will 
you  kindly  let  me  have  the  key?" 

"I  can't,"  said  Audrey. 

"Why  not.?" 

Audrey  acquired  tranquillity  as  she  went  on:  "It's 
at  Frinton.  Friends  of  mine  there  keep  a  punt  on 
Mozewater,  and  I  let  them  store  the  sail  and  things  in 


316  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

the  tank-room.  There's  plenty  of  room.  I  give  them 
the  key  because  that's  more  satisfactory.  The  tank- 
room  isn't  wanted  at  all,  you  see,  while  I'm  away  from 
home." 

"Who  are  these  friends.'"' 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spatt,"  said  Audrey  at  a  venture. 

*'I  see,"  said  the  detective. 

They  came  downstairs,  and  the  detective  made  it 
known  that  he  would  re-visit  the  drawing-room.  In- 
spector Keeble  followed  them.  In  that  room  Audrey 
remarked : 

"And  now  I  hope  you're  satisfied." 

Mr.  Hurley  merely  said: 

"Will  you  please  ring  for  Aguilar,'"' 

Audrey  complied.  But  she  had  to  ring  three  times 
before  the  gardener's  footsteps  were  heard  on  the  un- 
carpeted  stone  floor  of  the  hall. 

"Aguilar,"  Mr.  Hurley  demanded.  "Where  is  the 
key  of  the  tank-room.'"' 

Audrey  sank  into  a  chair,  knowing  profoundly  that 
all  was  lost. 

"It's  at  Mrs.  Spatt's  at  Frinton,"  replied  Aguilar 
glibly.  "Mistress  lets  her  have  that  room  to  store 
some  boat-gear  in.  I  expected  she'd  ha'  been  over 
before  this  to  get  it  out.  But  the  yachting  season 
seems  to  start  later  and  later  every  year  these  times." 

Audrey  gazed  at  the  man  as  at  a  miracle-worker. 

"Well,  I  think  that's  all,"  said  Mr.  Hurley. 

"No,  it  isn't,"  Audrey  corrected  him.  "You've  got 
all  my  keys  in  your  pocket — except  one." 

When  the  police  had  gone  Audrey  said  to  Aguilar 
in  the  hall: 

"Aguilar,  how  on  earth  did  you ?" 

But  she  was  in  such  a  state  of  emotion  at  the  reali- 


THE  TANK-ROOM  SIT 

satlon  of  dangers  affronted  and  past  that  she  could 
not  finish. 

"I'm  sorrj  I  was  so  long  answering  the  bell,  m'm," 
replied  Aguilar  strangely.  "But  I'd  put  my  list  slip- 
pers on — them  as  your  father  made  me  wear  when  I 
come  into  the  house,  mornings,  to  change  the  plants, 
and  I  thought  it  better  to  put  my  boots  on  again  before 
I  come.  .  .  .  Shall  I  put  the  keys  back  in  the  doors, 
madam .?" 

So  saying  he  touched  his  front-hair,  after  his  man- 
ner, and  took  the  keys  and  retired.  Audrey  was  as 
full  of  fear  as  of  gratitude.    Aguilar  daunted  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  THIRD  SORT  OF  WOMAN 


«1 


'It  was  quite  true  what  I  told  the  detective.  So  I 
suppose  you've  finished  with  me  for  evermore !"  Audrey 
burst  out  recklessly,  as  soon  as  she  and  Madame  Piriac 
were  alone  together.  The  supreme  moment  had  come, 
and  she  tried  to  grasp  it  like  a  nettle.  Her  adven- 
turous rashness  was,  she  admitted,  undeniable.  She 
had  spoken  the  truth  to  the  police-officer  about  her 
identity  and  her  spinsterhood  because  with  unusual 
wisdom  she  judged  that  fibs  or  even  prevarication  on 
such  a  subject  to  such  an  audience  might  entangle  her 
in  far  more  serious  difficulties  later  on.  Moreover,  with 
Inspector  Keeble  present,  she  could  not  successfully 
have  gone  very  far  from  the  truth.  It  was  a  pity  that 
Madame  Piriac  had  witnessed  the  scene,  for  really, 
when  Audrey  came  to  face  it,  the  deception  which  she 
had  practised  upon  Madame  Piriac  was  of  a  monstrous 
and  inexcusable  kind.  And  now  that  Madame  Piriac 
kpew  the  facts,  many  other  people  would  have  to  know 
the  facts — including  probably  Mr.  Oilman.  The  pros- 
pect of  explanations  was  terrible.  In  vain  Audrey 
said  to  herself  that  the  thing  was  naught,  that  she  had 
acted  within  her  rights,  and  that  anyhow  she  had  long 
ago  ceased  to  be  diffident  and  shy !  .  .  .  She  was  intimi- 
dated by  her  own  enormities.  And  she  also  thought: 
"How  could  I  have  been  silly  enough  to  tell  that  silly 
tale  about  the  Spatts  ?  More  complications.  And  poor 
dear  Inspector  Keeble  will  be  so  shocked." 

318 


THE  THIRD  SORT  OF  WOMAN         319 

After  a  short  pause  Madame  Piriac  replied,  in  a 
grave  but  kind  tone: 

"Why  would  you  that  I  should  have  finished  with 
you  forever?  You  had  the  right  to  call  yourself  by 
any  name  you  wished,  and  to  wear  any  ring  that 
pleased  your  caprice.  It  is  the  affair  of  nobody  but 
yourself." 

"Oh !  I'm  so  glad  you  take  it  like  that,"  said  Audrey 
with  eager  relief.  "That's  just  what  /  thought  all 
along !" 

"But  it  is  your  affair !"  Madame  Piriac  finished,  with 
a  peculiar  inflection  of  her  well-controUed  voice.  "I 
mean,"  she  added,  "you  cannot  afford  to  neglect  it." 

"No, — of  course  not,"  Audrey  agreed,  rather  dashed, 
and  with  a  vague  new  apprehension.  "Naturally  I 
shall  tell  you  everything,  darling.  I  had  my  reasons. 
I " 

"The  principal  question  is,  darling,"  Madame  Piriac 
stopped  her.  "What  are  you  going  to  do  now?  Ought 
we  not  to  return  to  the  yacht?" 

"But  I  must  look  after  Jane  Foley!"  cried  Audrey. 
"I  can't  leave  her  here." 

"And  why  not?     She  has  Miss  Ingate." 

"Yes,  worse  luck  for  her!  Winnie  would  make  the 
most  dreadful  mess  of  things  if  she  wasn't  stopped.  If 
Winnie  was  right  out  of  it,  and  Jane  Foley  had  only 
herself  and  Aguilar  to  count  on,  there  might  be  a 
chance.     But  not  else." 

"It  is  by  pure  hazard  that  you  are  here.  Nobody 
expected  you.  What  would  this  young  girl  Mees  Foley 
have  done  if  you  had  not  been  here?" 

"It's  no  good  wasting  time  about  that,  darling,  be- 
cause I  am  here,  don't  you  see?"  Audrey  straightened 
her  shoulders  and  put  her  hands  behind  her  back. 

"My  little  one,"  said  Madame  Piriac  with  a  certain 


320  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

solemnity.  "You  remember  our  conversation  in  my 
boudoir.  I  then  told  you  that  you  would  find  yourself 
in  a  riot  within  a  month,  if  you  continued  your  course. 
Was  I  right?  Happily  you  have  escaped  from  that 
horrible  complication.  Go  no  further.  Listen  to  me. 
You  were  not  created  for  these  adventures.  It  is  im- 
possible that  you  should  be  happy  in  them." 

"But  look  at  Jane  Foley,"  said  Audrey  eagerly.  "Is 
she  not  happy  .'^  Did  you  ever  see  anybody  as  happy 
as  Jane.?     I  never  did." 

"That  is  not  happiness,"  replied  Madame  Piriac. 
"That  is  exaltation.  It  is  morbid.  I  do  not  say  that 
it  is  not  right  for  her.  I  do  not  say  that  she  is  not 
justified,  and  that  that  which  she  represents  is  not 
justified.  But  I  say  that  a  role  such  as  hers  is  not  your 
role.  To  commence,  she  does  not  interest  herself  in 
men.  For  her  there  are  no  men  in  the  world — there 
are  only  political  enemies.  Do  you  think  I  do  not 
know  the  type.'*  We  have  it,  chez  nous.  It  is  full  of 
admirable  qualities — but  it  is  not  your  type.  For 
you,  darling,  the  world  is  inhabited  principally  by 
men,  and  the  time  will  come — perhaps  soon — when  for 
you  it  will  be  inhabited  principally  by  one  man.  If 
you  remain  obdurate,  there  must  inevitably  arrive  a 
quarrel  between  that  man  and  these — these  riotous 
adventures." 

"No  man  that  I  could  possibly  care  for,"  Audrey 
retorted,  "would  ever  object  to  me  having  an  active 
interest  in — er — politics." 

"I  agree,  darling,"  said  Madame  Piriac.  "He  would 
not  object.  It  is  you  who  would  object.  The  quarrel 
would  occur  within  your  own  heart.  There  are  two 
sorts  of  women — individualists  and  fanatics.  It  was 
always  so.     I  am  a  woman,  and  I  know  what  I'm  say- 


THE  THIRD  SORT  OF  WOxMAN         321 
ing.     So  do  you.    Well,  you  belong  to  the  first  sort  of 


woman." 


"I  don't,"  Audrey  protested.  Nevertheless  she 
recollected  her  thoughts  on  the  previous  night,  near 
the  binnacle  and  Mr.  Gilman,  about  the  indispensa- 
bility  of  a  man  and  about  the  futility  of  the  state  of 
not  owning  and  possessing  a  man.  The  memory  of 
these  thoughts  only  rendered  her  more  obstinate. 

"But  you  will  not  have  the  courage  to  tell  me  that 
you  are  a  fanatic.'"' 

"No." 

"Then  what.?" 

"There  is  a  third  sort  of  woman." 

"Darling,  believe  me,  there  is  not." 

"There's  going  to  be,  anyhow!"  said  Audrey  with 
decision,  and  in  English.  "And  I  won't  leave  Jane 
Foley  in  the  lurch,  either !  .  .  .  Now  I'll  just  run  up 
and  have  a  talk  with  her,  if  you  don't  mind  waiting  a 
minute  or  two." 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do.'"'  Madame  Piriac 
demanded. 

"Well,"  said  Audrey.  "It  is  obvious  that  there  is 
only  one  safe  thing  to  do.  I  shall  take  Jane  on  board 
the  yacht.     We  shall  sail  off,  and  she'll  be  safe." 

"On  the  yacht!"  repeated  Madame  Piriac,  truly 
astounded.  "But  my  poor  oncle  will  never  agree.  You 
do  not  know  him.  You  do  not  know  how  peculiar  he 
is.     Never  will  he  agree !     Besides " 

"Darling,"  said  Audrey  quietly  and  confidently.  "If 
he  does  not  agree,  I  undertake  to  go  into  a  convent 
for  the  rest  of  my  days." 

Madame  Piriac  was  silent. 

Just  as  she  was  opening  the  door  to  go  upstairs, 
Audrey  suddenly  turned  back  into  the  room. 


322  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"Darling,"  she  said,  kissing  Madame  Piriac.  "How 
calmly  you've  taken  it!" 

"Taken  what?" 

"About  me  not  being  Mrs.  Moncreiff  nor  a  widow 
nor  anything  of  that  kind." 

"But  darling,"  answered  Madame  Piriac  with  ex- 
quisite tranquillity.     "Of  course  I  knew  it  before." 

"You  knew  it  before !" 

"Certainly.  I  knew  it  the  first  time  I  saw  you,  in 
the  studio  of  Mademoiselle  Nickall.  You  were  the 
image  of  your  father!  The  image,  I  repeat — except 
perhaps  the  nose.  Recollect  that  as  a  child  I  saw  your 
father.  I  was  left  with  my  mother's  relatives,  until 
matters  should  be  arranged;  but  he  came  to  Paris. 
Then  before  matters  could  be  arranged  my  mother  died, 
and  I  never  saw  him  again.  But  I  could  never  forget 
him.  .  .  .  Then  also,  in  my  boudoir  that  night,  you 
blushed — it  was  very  amusing — when  I  mentioned 
Essex  and  Audrey  Moze.  And  there  were  other 
things." 

"For  instance!'" 

"Darling,  you  were  never  quite  convincing  as  a 
widow — at  any  rate  to  a  Frenchwoman.  You  may  have 
deceived  American  and  English  women.  But  not  my- 
self. You  did  not  say  the  convincing  things  when  the 
conversation  took  certain  turns.     That  is  all." 

"You  knew  who  I  was,  and  you  never  told  me!" 
Audrey  pouted. 

"Had  I  the  right,  darling?  You  had  decided  upon 
your  identity.  It  would  have  been  inexcusable  on  my 
part  to  inform  you  that  you  were  mistaken  in  so  essen- 
tial a  detail." 

Madame  Piriac  gently  returned  Audrey's  kiss. 

"So  that  was  why  you  insisted  on  me  coming  with 


THE  THIRD  SORT  OF  WOMAN        323 

you  to-day!"  murmured  Audrey,  crestfallen.  "You 
are  a  marvellous  actress,  darling." 

"I  have  several  times  been  told  so,"  Madame  Piriac 
admitted  simply. 

"What  on  earth  did  you  expect  would  happen?" 

"Not  that  which  has  happened,"  said  Madame  Piriac. 

"Well,  if  you  ask  me,"  said  Audrey  with  gaiety  and 
a  renewal  of  self-confidence.  "I  think  it's  all  happened 
splendidly." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 


IN   THE  DINGHY 


When  the  pair  got  back  to  the  sea-wall  the  tide  had 
considerably  ebbed,  and  where  the  dinghy  had  floated 
there  was  nothing  more  liquid  than  exquisitely  coloured 
mud.  Nevertheless  water  still  lapped  the  yacht,  where- 
as on  the  shore  side  of  the  yacht  was  now  no  crowd. 
The  vans  and  carts  had  all  departed,  and  the  quidnuncs 
and  observers  of  human  nature,  having  gazed  steadily 
at  the  yacht  for  some  ten  hours,  had  thought  fit  to 
depart  also.  The  two  women  looked  about  rather 
anxiously  as  though  Mr.  Oilman  had  basely  marooned 
them. 

"But  what  must  we  do?"  demanded  Madame  Piriac. 

"Oh !  We  can  walk  round  on  the  dyke,"  said  Audrey 
superiorly.     "Unless  the  stiles  frighten  you." 

"It  is  about  to  rain,"  said  Madame  Piriac,  glancing 
at  the  high  curved  heels  of  her  shoes. 

The  sky,  which  was  very  wide  and  variegated  over 
Mozewater,  did  indeed  seem  to  threaten. 

At  that  moment  the  dinghy  appeared  round  the  fore- 
foot of  the  Ariadne.  Mr.  Oilman  and  Miss  Thompkins 
were  in  it,  and  Mr.  Oilman  was  rowing  with  gentleness 
and  dignity.  They  had,  even  afar  off,  a  tremendous 
air  of  intimacy;  each  leaned  towards  the  other,  face 
to  face,  and  Tommy  had  her  chin  in  her  hands  and 
her  elbows  on  her  knees.  And  in  addition  to  an  air  of 
intimacy  they  had  an  air  of  mystery.  It  was  surpris- 
ing,  and  perhaps   a  little   annoying,  to   Audrey   that 

324 


IN  THE  DINGHY  325 

those  two  should  have  gone  on  living  to  themselves,  in 
their  own  self-absorbed  way,  while  such  singular  events 
had  been  happening  to  herself  in  Flank  Hall.  She  put 
several  fingers  in  her  mouth  and  produced  a  piercing 
long-distance  whistle  which  effectively  reached  the 
dinghy. 

"My  poor  little  one !"  exclaimed  Madame  Piriac, 
shocked  in  spite  of  her  broadmindedness  by  both  the 
sound  and  the  manner  of  its  production. 

"Oh !  I  learnt  that  when  I  was  twelve,"  said  Audrey. 
"It  took  me  four  months,  but  I  did  it.  And  nobody 
except  Miss  Ingate  knows  that  I  can  do  it." 

The  occupants  of  the  dinghy  were  signalling  their 
intention  to  rescue,  and  Mr.  Gilman  used  his  back 
nobly. 

"But  we  cannot  embark  here !"  Madame  Piriac  com- 
plained. 

"Oh,  yes !"  said  Audrey.  "You  see  those  white  stones  .?* 
.  .   .  It's  quite  easy." 

When  the  dinghy  had  done  about  half  the  journey 
Madame  Piriac  murmured : 

"By  the  way,  who  are  you,  precisely,  for  the  pres- 
ent?   It  would  be  prudent  to  decide,  darling." 

Audrey  hesitated  an  instant. 

"Who  am  I?  .  .  .  Oh !  I  see.  Well,  I'd  better  keep 
on  being  Mrs.  Moncreiff  for  a  bit,  hadn't  I.'"' 

"It  is  as  you  please,  darling." 

The  fact  was  that  Audrey  recoiled  from  a  general 
confession,  though  admitting  it  to  be  ultimately  in- 
evitable. Moreover,  she  had  a  slight  fear  that  each 
of  her  friends  in  turn  might  make  a  confession  ridicu- 
lous by  saying:     "We  knew  all  along,  of  course." 

The  dinghy  was  close  in. 

"My!"  cried  Tommy.  "Who  did  that  whistle?  It 
was  enough  to  beat  the  cars." 


326  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  know!"  Audrey  retorted. 

The  embarcation,  under  Audrey's  direction,  was 
accomplished  in  safety,  and,  save  for  one  tiny  French 
scream,  in  silence.  The  silence,  which  persisted,  was 
peculiar.  Each  pair  should  have  had  something  to 
tell  the  other,  yet  nothing  was  told,  or  even  asked. 
Mr.  Oilman  rowed  with  careful  science,  and  brought 
the  dinghy  alongside  the  yacht  in  an  unexceptionable 
manner.  Musa  stood  on  deck  apart,  acting  indifl'er- 
ence.  Madame  Piriac,  having  climbed  into  the  Ariadne, 
went  below  at  once.  Miss  Thompkins,  seeing  her  friend 
Mr.  Price  half  way  down  the  saloon  companion,  moved 
to  speak  to  him,  and  they  vanished  together.  Mr.  Gil- 
man  was  respectfully  informed  by  the  engineer  that  the 
skipper  and  Dr.  Cromarty  were  ashore. 

"How  nice  it  is  on  the  water!"  said  Audrey  to  Mr. 
Gilman  in  a  low  gentle  voice.  "There  is  a  channel 
round  there  with  three  feet  of  water  in  it  at  low  tide." 
She  sketched  a  curve  in  the  air  with  her  finger. 

"Of  course  you  know  this  part,"  said  Mr.  Gilman 
cautiously  and  even  apprehensively.  His  glance  seemed 
to  be  saying:  "And  it  was  you  who  gave  that  fearful 
whistle,  too  !    Are  you,  can  you  be,  all  that  I  dreamed  ?" 

"I  do,"  Audrey  answered.  "Would  you  like  me  to 
show  it  you." 

"I  should  be  more  than  delighted,"  said  Mr.  Gilman. 

With  a  gesture  he  summoned  a  man  to  untie  the 
dinghy  again  and  hold  it,  and  the  man  slid  down  into 
the  dinghy  like  a  monkey. 

"PU  pull,"  said  Audrey,  in  the  boat. 

The  man  sprang  out  of  the  dinghy. 

"One  instant!"  Mr.  Gilman  begged  her,  standing  up 
in  the  sternsheets,  and  popping  his  head  through  a 
porthole  of  the  saloon.     "Mr.  Price!" 

"Sir.^"     From  the  interior. 


IN  THE  DINGHY  327 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  play  that  air  with 
thirty-six  variations,  of  Beethoven's?  We  shall  hear 
splendidly  from  the  dinghy." 

"Certainly,  sir." 

And  Audrey  said  to  herself:  "You  don't  want  him 
to  flirt  with  Tommy  while  you're  away,  so  you've  given 
him  something  to  keep  him  busy." 

Mr.  Oilman  remarked  under  his  breath  to  Audrey: 

"I  think  there  is  nothing  finer  than  to  hear  Bee- 
thoven on  the  water." 

"Oh  !    There  isn't !"  she  eagerly  concurred. 

Ignoring  the  thirty-six  variations  of  Beethoven, 
Audrey  rowed  slowly  away,  and  after  about  a  hundred 
yards  the  boat  had  rounded  a  little  knoll  which  marked 
the  beginning  of  a  narrow  channel  known  as  the  Lander 
creek.  The  thirty-six  variations,  however,  would  not 
be  denied;  they  softly  impregnated  the  whole  beautiful 
watery  scene. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Oilman  suddenly,  "perhaps 
your  ladyship  wr,s  not  quite  pleased  at  me  rowing  about 
with  Miss  Thompkins- — especially  after  I  had  taken 
her  for  a  walk."  He  smiled,  but  his  voice  was  rather 
wistful.   Audrey  liked  him  prodigiously  in  that  moment. 

"Foolish  man !"  she  replied,  with  a  smile  far  surpass- 
ing his,  and  she  rested  on  her  oars,  taking  care  to  keep 
the  boat  in  the  middle  of  the  channel.  "Do  you  know 
why  I  asked  you  to  come  out?  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you 
quite  privately.     It  is  easier  here." 

"I'm  so  glad !"  he  said  simply  and  sincerely.  And 
Audrey  thought:  "Is  it  possible  to  give  so  much 
pleasure  to  an  important  and  wealthy  man  with  so 
little  trouble?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Of  course  you  know  who  I  really 
am,  don't  you,  Mr.  Oilman?" 

'I  only  know  you're  Mrs.  Moncreiff,"  he  answered. 


«i 


828  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"But  I'm  not!  Surely  you've  heard  soviethmg. 
Surely  it's  been  hinted  in  front  of  you." 

"Never!"  said  he. 

"But  haven't  you  asked — about  my  marriage,  for 
instance?" 

"To  ask  might  have  been  to  endanger  your  secret," 
he  said. 

"I  see !"  she  murmured.  "How  frightfully  loyal  you 
are,  Mr.  Gilman !  I  do  admire  loyalty.  Well,  I  dare- 
say very,  very  few  people  do  know.  So  I'll  tell  you. 
That's  my  home  over  there."  And  she  pointed  to  Flank 
Hall,  whose  chimneys  could  just  be  seen  over  the  bank. 

"I  admit  that  I  had  thought  so,"  said  Mr.  Gilman. 
"But  naturally  that  was  your  home  as  a  girl,  before 
your  marriage." 

"I've  never  been  married,  Mr.  Gilman,"  she  said. 
"I'm  only  what  the  French  call  a  jeune  file." 

His  face  changed;  he  seemed  to  be  withdrawing 
alarmed  into  himself. 

"Never — been  married.''" 

"Oh!  You  must  understand  me!"  she  "went  on,  with 
an  appealing  vivacity.  "I  was  all  alone.  I  was  in 
mourning  for  my  father  and  mother.  I  wanted  to  see 
the  world.  I  just  had  to  see  it!  I  expect  I  was  very 
foolish,  but  it  was  so  easy  to  put  a  ring  on  my  finger 
and  call  myself  Mrs.  And  it  gave  me  such  advantages. 
And  Miss  Ingate  agreed.  She  was  my  mother's  oldest 
friend.  .   .  .  You're  vexed  with  me." 

"You  always  seemed  so  wise,"  Mr.  Gilman  faltered. 

"Ah!     That's  only  the  effect  of  my  forehead!" 

"And  yet,  you  know,  I  always  thought  there  was 
something  very  innocent  about  you,  too." 

"I  don't  know  what  that  was,"  said  Audrey.  "But 
honestly  I  acted  for  the  best.  You  see  I'm  rather  rich. 
Supposing  I'd  only  gone  about  as  a  young  marriage- 


IN  THE  DINGHY  329 

able  girl — what  frightful  risks  I  should  have  run, 
shouldn't  I?  Somebody  would  be  bound  to  have  mar- 
ried me  for  my  money.  And  look  at  all  I  should  have 
missed — without  this  ring!  I  should  never  have  met 
you  in  Paris,  for  instance,  and  wc  should  never  have 
had  those  talks.  .  .  .  And — and  there's  a  lot  more  rea- 
sons— I  shall  tell  you  another  time — about  INladame 
Piriac  and  so  on.    Now  do  say  you  aren't  vexed !" 

"I  think  you've  been  splendid,"  he  said,  with  enthu- 
siasm. "I  think  the  girls  of  to-day  are  splendid !  I've 
been  a  regular  old  fogey,  that's  what  it  is." 

"Now  there's  one  thing  I  want  you  not  to  do," 
Audrey  proceeded.  "I  want  you  not  to  alter  the  way 
you  talk  to  me.  Because  I'm  really  just  the  same  girl 
I  was — last  night.   And  I  couldn't  bear  you  to  change." 

"I  won't !     I  won't !    But  of  course '* 

"No,  no !  No  buts.  I  won't  have  it.  Do  you  know 
why  I  told  you  just  this  afternoon.?  Well,  partly  be- 
cause you  were  so  perfectly  sweet  last  night.  And 
partly  because  I've  got  a  favour  to  ask  you,  and  I 
wouldn't  ask  it  until  I'd  told  you." 

"You  can't  ask  me  a  favour,"  he  rephed,  "because 
it  wouldn't  be  a  favour.     It  would  be  my  privilege." 

"But  if  you  put  it  like  that  I  can't  ask  you." 

"You  must!"  he  said  firmly. 

Then  she  told  him  something  of  the  predicament  of 
Jane  Foley.  He  listened  with  an  expression  of  trouble. 
Audrey  finished  bluntly:  "She's  my  friend.  And  I 
want  you  to  take  her  on  the  yacht  to-night  after  it's 
dark.  Nobody  but  you  can  save  her.  There!  I've 
asked  you !" 

"Jane  Foley !"  he  murmured. 

She  could  see  that  he  was  aghast.  The  syllables  of 
that  name  were  notorious  throughout  Britain.  They 
stood  for  revolt,  damage  to  property,  defiance  of  law. 


330  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

injured  policemen,  forcible  feeding,  and  all  sorts  of 
phenomena  that  horrified  respectable  pillars  of  society. 

"She's  the  dearest  thing!"  said  Audrey.  "You've 
no  idea.  You'd  love  her.  And  she's  done  as  much  for 
women's  suffrage  as  anybody  in  the  world.  She's  a  real 
heroine,  if  you  like.  You  couldn't  help  the  cause  better 
than  by  helping  her.  And  I  know  how  keen  you  are 
to  help."  And  Audrey  said  to  herself :  "He's  as  timid 
as  a  girl  about  it.     How  queer  men  are,  after  all !" 

"But  what  are  we  to  do  with  her  afterwards  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Oilman.     There  was  perspiration  on  his  brow. 

"Sail  straight  to  France,  of  course.  They  couldn't 
touch  her  there,  you  see,  because  it's  political.  It  is 
political,  you  know,"  Audrey  insisted  proudly. 

"And  give  up  all  our  cruise.''" 

Audrey  bent  forward,  as  she  had  seen  Tommy  do. 
She  smiled  enchantingly.  "I  quite  understand,"  she 
said,  with  a  sort  of  tenderness.  "You  don't  want  to 
do  it.     And  it  was  a  shame  of  me  even  to  suggest  it." 

"But  I  do  want  to  do  it,"  he  protested  with  splendid 
despairful  resolve.  "I  was  only  thinking  of  you — and 
the  cruise.  I  do  want  to  do  it.  I'm  absolutely  at 
your  disposal.  When  you  ask  me  to  do  a  thing,  I'm 
only  too  proud.  To  do  it  is  the  greatest  happiness 
I  could  have." 

Audrey  replied  softly: 

"You  deserve  the  Victoria  Cross." 

"Whatever  do  you  mean.'"'  he  demanded  nervously. 

"I  don't  know  exactly  what  I  mean,"  she  said.  "But 
you're  the  nicest  man  I  ever  knew." 

He  blushed. 

"You  mustn't  say  that  to  me,"  he  deprecated. 

"I  shall,  and  I  shall." 

The  sound  of  the  thirty-six  variations  still  came  very 
faintly  over  the  water.      The   sun  sent   cataracts   of 


IN  THE  DINGHY  381 

warm  light  across  all  the  estuary.  The  water  lapped 
against  the  boat,  and  Audrey  was  overwhelmed  by  the 
inexplicable  marvel  of  being  alive  in  the  gorgeous 
universe. 

"I  shall  have  to  back  water,"  she  said,  low.  "There's 
no  room  to  turn  round  here." 

"I  suppose  we'd  better  say  as  little  about  it  as 
possible,"  he  ventured. 

"Oh !     Not  a  word !     Not  a  word  till  it's  done." 

"Yes,  of  course."  He  was  drenched  in  an  agitating 
satisfaction. 

Five  bells  rang  clear  from  the  yacht,  overmastering 
the  thirty-six  variations. 

Audrey  thought: 

"So  he'd  never  agree,  wouldn't  he,  Madame  Piriac !" 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

AFLOAT 

That  night,  which  was  an  unusually  dark  night  for 
the  time  of  year,  Audrey  left  the  yacht,  alone,  to  fetch 
Jane  Foley.  She  had  made  a  provisional  plan  with 
Jane  and  Aguilar,  and  the  arrangement  with  Mr.  Gil- 
man  had  been  of  the  simplest,  necessitating  nothing 
save  a  brief  order  from  the  owner  to  the  woman  whom 
Audrey  could  always  amuse  Mr.  Oilman  by  calling  the 
"parlourmaid,"  but  who  was  more  commonly  known 
as  the  stewardess.  This  young  married  creature  had 
prepared  a  cabin.  For  the  rest  little  had  been  said. 
The  understanding  between  Mr.  Oilman  and  Audrey 
was  that  Mrs.  Moncreiff  should  continue  to  exist,  and 
that  not  a  word  as  to  the  arrival  of  Jane  Foley  should 
escape  either  of  them  until  the  deed  was  accomplished. 
It  is  true  that  Madame  Piriac  knew  of  the  probable 
imminence  of  the  affair,  but  Madame  Piriac  was  dis- 
cretion elegantly  attired,  and  from  the  moment  they 
had  left  Flank  Hall  together,  she  had  been  wise  enough 
not  even  to  mention  Jane  Foley  to  Audrey.  Madame 
Piriac  appreciated  the  value  of  ignorance  in  a  ques- 
tionable crisis.  Mr.  Oilman  had  been  less  guarded. 
Indeed  he  had  shown  a  tendency  to  discuss  the  coming 
adventure  with  Audrey  in  remote  corners, — a  tendency 
which  had  to  be  discouraged  because  it  gave  to  both 
of  them  a  too  obvious  air  of  being  tremendous  con- 
spirators. Also  Audrey  had  had  to  dissuade  him  from 
accompanying  her  to  the  Hall.     He  had  rather  con- 

332 


AFLOAT  333 

volitional  ideas  about  women  being  abroad  alone  after 
dark,  and  he  abandoned  them  with  difficulty  even  now. 

As  there  were  no  lampposts  alight  in  summer  in  the 
village  of  Moze,  Audrey  had  no  fear  of  being  recog- 
nised; moreover,  recognition  by  her  former  fellow- 
citizens  could  now  have  no  sinister  importance;  she  did 
not  much  care  who  recognised  her.  The  principal  gates 
of  Flank  Hall  were  slightly  ajar,  as  arranged  with 
Aguilar,  and  -she  passed  with  a  suddenly  aroused  heart 
up  the  drive  towards  the  front  entrance  of  the  house. 
In  spite  of  herself  she  could  not  get  rid  of  an  absurd 
fear  that  either  Mr.  Hurley  or  Inspector  Keeble  or 
both  would  jump  out  of  the  dark  bushes  and  slip  hand- 
cuffs upon  her  wrists.  And  the  baffling  invisibility  of 
the  sky  further  affected  her  nerves.  There  ought  to 
have  been  a  lamp  in  the  front-hall,  but  no  ray  showed 
through  the  eighteenth-century  fanlight  over  the  door. 
She  rang  the  bell  cautiously.  She  heard  the  distant 
ting.  Aguilar,  according  to  the  plan,  ought  to  have 
opened ;  but  he  did  not  open ;  nobody  opened.  She 
was  instantly  sure  that  she  knew  what  had  happened. 
Mr.  Hurley  had  been  to  Frinton  and  ascertained  that 
the  Spatt  story  as  to  the  tank-room  was  an  invention, 
and  had  returned  with  a  search  warrant  and  some  tools. 
But  in  another  ten  seconds  she  was  equally  sure  that 
nothing  of  the  sort  could  have  happened,  for  it  was 
an  axiom  with  her  that  Aguilar's  masterly  lying,  based 
on  masterly  listening  at  an  attic  door,  had  convinced 
Mr.  Hurley  of  the  truth  of  the  story  about  the  tank- 
room. 

Accidentally  pushing  against  the  front-door  with 
an  elbow  in  the  deep  obscurity,  she  discovered  that  it 
was  not  latched.  This  was  quite  contrary  to  the  plan. 
She  stepped  into  the  house.  The  unforeseeing  simple- 
ton had  actually  come  on  the  excursion  without  a  box 


334  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

of  matches !  She  felt  her  way,  aided  by  the  swift- 
returning  memories  of  childhood,  to  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  and  past  the  stairs  into  the  kitchen,  for  in 
ancient  days  a  candlestick  with  a  box  of  matches  in 
it  had  always  been  kept  on  the  ledge  of  the  small  square 
window  that  gave  light  to  the  passage  between  the  hall 
and  the  kitchen.  Her  father  had  been  most  severely 
particular  about  that  candlestick  (with  matches)  being 
always  ready  on  that  ledge  in  case  of  his  need.  Ridicu- 
lous, of  course,  to  expect  a  candlestick  to  be  still  there ! 
Times  change  so.  But  she  felt  for  it,  and  there  it  was, 
and  the  matches,  too !  She  lit  the  candle.  The  dim 
scene  thus  revealed  seemed  strange  enough  to  her  after 
the  electricity  of  the  Hotel  du  Danube  and  of  the 
yacht.     It  made  her  want  to  cry.   .   .   . 

She  was  one  of  those  people  who  have  room  in  their 
minds  for  all  sorts  of  things  at  once.  And  thus  she 
could  simultaneously  be  worried  to  an  extreme  about 
Jane  Foley,  foolish  and  sad  about  her  immensely  dis- 
tant childhood,  and  even  regretful  that  she  had  ad- 
mitted the  fraudulence  of  the  wedding-ring  on  her  hand. 
On  the  last  point  she  had  a  very  strong  sense  of  failure 
and  disillusion.  When  she  had  first  donned  a  widow's 
bonnet  she  had  meant  to  have  wondrous  adventures 
and  to  hear  marvellous  conversations  as  a  widow.  And 
what  had  she  done  with  her  widowhood  after  all.^^ 
Nothing.  She  could  not  but  think  that  she  ought  to 
have  kept  it  a  little  longer,  on  the  chance.  .   .   . 

Aguilar  made  a  practice  of  sleeping  in  the  kitchen; 
he  considered  that  a  house  could  only  be  well  guarded 
at  night  from  the  ground-floor.  There  was  his  bed, 
in  the  corner  against  the  brush  and  besom  cupboard, 
all  made  up.  Its  creaselessness,  so  characteristic  of 
Aguilar,  had  not  been  disturbed.  The  sight  of  the 
narrow  bed  made  Audrey  think  what  a  strange  exist- 


AFLOAT  335 

ence  was  the  existence  of  Aguilar.  .  .  .  Then,  with  a 
boldness  that  was  half  bluster,  she  went  upstairs,  and 
the  creaking  of  the  woodwork  was  affrighting. 

"Jane !  Jane,  dear !"  she  called  out,  as  she  arrived 
at  the  second-story  landing.  The  sound  of  her  voice 
was  uncanny  in  the  haunted  stillness.  All  Audrey's 
infancy  floated  up  the  well  of  the  stairs  and  wrapped 
itself  round  her  and  tightened  her  throat.  She  went 
along  the  passage  to  the  door  of  the  tank-room. 

"Jane,  Jane !" 

No  answer!  The  door  was  locked.  She  listened. 
She  put  her  ear  against  the  door  in  order  to  catch  the 
faintest  sound  of  life  within.  But  she  could  only  hear 
the  crude,  sharp  ticking  of  the  cheap  clock  which,  as 
she  knew,  Aguilar  had  supplied  to  Jane  Foley.  The 
vision  of  Jane  lying  unconscious  or  dead  obsessed  her. 
Then  she  thrust  it  away  and  laughed  at  it.  Assuredly 
Aguilar  and  Jane  must  have  received  some  alarm  as 
to  a  reappearance  of  the  police;  they  must  have  fled 
while  there  had  yet  been  time.  Where  could  they  have 
gone?  Of  course  through  the  garden  and  plantation 
and  down  to  the  sea-wall,  whence  Jane  might  steal  to 
the  yacht.  Audrey  turned  back  towards  the  stairs, 
and  the  vast  intimidating  emptiness  of  the  gloomy 
house,  lit  by  a  single  flickering  candle,  assaulted  her. 
She  had  to  fight  it  before  she  could  descend.  The 
garden-door  was  latched,  but  not  locked.  Extinguish- 
ing the  candle,  she  went  forth.  The  gusty  breeze  from 
the  estuary  was  now  damp  on  her  cheek  with  the 
presage  of  rain.  She  hurried,  fumbling  as  it  were, 
through  the  garden.  When  she  achieved  the  hedge  the 
spectacle  of  the  yacht,  gleaming  from  stem  to  stern 
with  electricity,  burst  upon  her;  it  shone  like  some- 
thing desired  and  unattainable.  Carefully  she  issued 
from  the  grounds   by  the  little  gate  and   crossed  the 


336  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

intervening  space  to  the  dyke.     A  dark  figure  moved 
in  front  of  her,  and  her  heart  violently  jumped. 
"Is  that  you,  madam?" 

It  was  the  cold,  imperturbable  voice  of  Aguilar.  At 
once  she  felt  reassured. 

"Where  is  Miss  Foley?"  she  demanded  in  a  whisper. 

"I've  got  her  down  here,  ma'am,"  said  Aguilar.  "I 
presume  as  you've  been  to  the  house.  We  had  to  leave 
it." 

"But  the  door  of  the  tank-room  was  locked!" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  I  locked  it  a-purpose.  ...  I  thought 
as  it  would  keep  the  police  employed  a  bit  when  they 
come.  I  seen  my  cousin  Sarah  when  I  went  to  tell  Miss 
Ingate  as  you  instructed  me.  My  cousin  Sarah  seen 
Keeble.  They  been  to  Frinton  to  Mrs.  Spatt's,  and 
they  found  out  about  that.  And  now  the  'tec's  back, 
or  nearly.  I  reckon  it  was  the  warrant  as  was  delaying 
him.  So  I  out  with  Miss  Foley.  I  thought  I  could  take 
her  across  to  the  yacht  from  here.  It  wouldn't  hardly 
be  safe  for  her  to  walk  round  by  the  dyke.  Hurley 
may  have  several  of  his  chaps  about  by  this  time." 

"But  there's  not  water  enough,  Aguilar." 

"Yes,  madam.  I  dragged  the  old  punt  down.  She 
don't  draw  three  inches.  She's  afloat  now,  and  Miss 
Foley's  in  her.  I  was  just  a-going  off.  If  you  don't 
mind  wetting  your  feet ." 

In  one  minute  Audrey  had  splashed  into  the  punt. 
Jane  Foley  took  her  hand  in  silence,  and  she  heard 
Jane's  low,  happy  laugh. 

"Isn't  it  funny?"  Jane  whispered. 

Audrey  squeezed  her  hand. 

Aguilar  pushed  off  with  an  oar,  and  he  continued  to 
use  the  oar  as  a  punt-pole,  so  that  no  sound  of  their 
movement  should  reach  the  bank.  Water  was  pouring 
into  the  old  sieve,  and  they  touched  ground  once.     But 


AFLOAT  337 

Aguilar  knew  precisely  what  he  was  about  and  got  her 
off  again.  They  approached  the  yacht  with  the  slow, 
sure  inexorability  of  Aguilar's  character.  A  beam 
from  the  portholes  of  the  saloon  caught  Aguilar's  erect 
figure.  He  sat  down,  poling  as  well  as  he  could  from 
the  new  position.  When  they  were  a  little  nearer,  he 
stopped  dead,  holding  the  punt  firm  by  means  of  the 
pole  fixed  in  the  mud. 

"He's  there  afore  us !"  he  murmured,  pointing. 

Under  the  Maltese-cross  of  electric  lights  at  the 
inner  end  of  the  gangway  could  clearly  be  seen  the 
form  of  Mr.  Hurley,  engaged  in  conversation  with  Mr. 
Gilman.     Mr.  Hurley  was  fairly  on  board. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 


IN  THE  UNIVERSE 


When  Audrey,  having  been  put  ashore  in  execution 
of  a  plan  arranged  with  those  naturally  endowed 
strategists,  Aguilar  and  Jane  Foley,  arrived  at  the 
Hard  by  way  of  the  sea-wall,  Mr.  Hurley  was  still  in 
parley  with  Mr.  Gilman  under  the  Maltese-cross  of 
electric  lights.  From  the  distance  Mr.  Gilman  had  an 
air  of  being  somewhat  intimidated  by  the  Irishman,  but 
as  soon  as  he  distinguished  the  figure  of  Audrey  at 
the  shore  end  of  the  gangway  his  muscles  became  mys- 
teriously taut,  and  his  voice  charged  with  defiance. 

"I  have  already  told  you,  sir,"  Audrey  heard  him 
say,  "there  is  no  such  person  aboard  the  yacht.  And 
I  most  certainly  will  not  allow  you  to  search.  You 
have  no  right  whatever  to  search,  and  you  know  it. 
You  have  my  word.  My  name  is  Gilman;  You  may 
have  heard  of  me.  I'm  Chairman  of  the  Board  of 
Foodstuffs  Limited.  Gilman,  sir.  And  I  shall  feel 
obliged  if  you  will  leave  my  decks." 

"Are  you  sailing  to-night.''"  asked  Mr.  Hurley 
placidly. 

"What  the  devil  has  that  got  to  do  with  you,  sir.?" 
replied  Mr.  Gilman  gloriously. 

Audrey,  standing  behind  the  detective  and  unseen 
by  him,  observed  the  gloriousness  of  Mr.  Gilman's  de- 
meanour and  also  Mr.  Gilman's  desire  that  she  should 
note  the  same  and  appreciate  it.  She  nodded  violently 
several  times  to  Mr.  Gilman,  to  urge  him  to  answer 
the  detective  in  the  affirmative. 

338 


IN  THE  UNIVERSE  339 

"Ye-es,  sir.  Since  you  are  so  confoundly  inqiiisi- 
tive,  I  am  sailing  to-night.  I  shall  sail  as  soon  as  the 
tide  serv-es,"  said  Mr.  Gilman  hurriedly  and  fiercely, 
and  then  glanced  again  at  Audrey  for  further  approval. 

"Where  for.'"'  Mr.  Hurley  demanded. 

"Where  I  please,  sir,"  Mr.  Gilman  snorted.  By  this 
time  he  evidently  imagined  that  he  was  furious,  and 
was  taking  pleasure  in  his  fury. 

Mr.  Hurley,  having  given  a  little  ironic  bow,  turned 
to  leave  and  found  himself  fronting  Audrey,  who  stiffly 
ignored  his  salute.  The  detective  gone,  Mr.  Gilman 
walked  to  and  fro,  breathing  more  loudly  than  ever, 
and  unsuccessfully  pretending  to  a  scattered  audience 
which  consisted  of  the  skipper,  Mr.  Price,  Dr.  Cro- 
marty, and  sundry  deck-hands,  that  he  had  done 
nothing  in  particular  and  was  not  a  hero.  As  Audrey 
approached  him  he  seemed  to  lay  all  his  glory  with 
humble  pride  at  her  feet. 

"Well,  he  brought  that  on  himself!"  said  Audrey, 
smiling. 

"He  did,"  Mr.  Gilman  concurred,  gazing  at  the  Hard 
with  inimical  scorn. 

"She  can't  come — now,"  said  Audrey.  "It  wouldn't 
be  safe.  He  means  to  stay  on  the  Hard  till  we're  gone. 
He's  a  very  suspicious  man." 

Mr.  Hurley  was  indeed  lingering  just  beyond  the 
immediate  range  of  the  Ariadne's  lamps. 

"Can't  come !  What  a  pity  !  What  a  pity !"  mur- 
mured Mr.  Gilman,  with  an  accent  that  was  not  a  bit 
sincere.  The  news  was  the  best  he  had  heard  for  hours. 
"But  I  suppose,"  he  added,  "we'd  better  sail  just  the 
same,  as  I've  said  we  should?"  He  did  not  want  to 
run  the  risk  of  getting  Jane  Foley  after  all. 

"Oh !  Do  !"  Audrey  exclaimed.  "It  will  be  lovely ! 
If  it  doesn't  rain — and  even  if  it  does  rain!     We  all 


340  .THE  LION'S  SHARE 

like  sailing  at  night.  .  .  .  Are  the  others  in  the  saloon? 
I'll  run  down." 

"Mr.  Wyatt,"  the  owner  sternly  accosted  the  cap- 
tain.    "When  can  we  get  off  .P" 

"Oh!  About  midnight,"  Audrey  answered  quickly, 
before  Mr.  Wyatt  could  composed  his  lips. 

Men  gazed  at  each  other  surprised  by  this  show  of 
technical  knowledge  in  a  young  widow.  By  the  time 
Mr.  Wyatt  had  replied  Audrey  was  descending  into  the 
saloon.  It  was  Aguilar  who,  having  ascertained  the 
Ariadne^ s  draught,  had  made  the  calculation  as  to  the 
earliest  possible  hour  of  departure. 

And  in  the  saloon  Musa  was,  as  it  were,  being  en- 
veloped and  kept  comfortable  in  the  admiring  sym- 
pathy of  Madame  Piriac  and  Miss  Thompkins.  Mr. 
Gilman's  violin  lay  across  his  knees — perhaps  he  had 
been  tuning  it — and  the  women  inclined  towards  him, 
one  on  either  side.  It  was  a  sight  that  somewhat 
annoyed  Audrey,  who  told  herself  that  she  considered 
it  silly.  Admitting  that  Musa  had  genius,  she  could 
not  understand  this  soft  flattery  of  genius.  She  never 
flattered  genius  herself,  and  she  did  not  approve  of 
others  doing  so.  Certainly  Musa  was  now  being  treated 
on  the  yacht  as  a  celebrity  of  the  first  order,  and 
Audrey  could  find  no  explanation  of  the  steady  growth 
in  the  height  and  splendour  of  his  throne.  Her  arrival 
dissolved  the  spectacle.  Within  one  minute,  somehow, 
the  saloon  was  empty  and  everybody  on  deck  again. 

And  then,  drawing  her  away,  Musa  murmured  to 
Audrey  in  a  disconcerting  tone  that  he  must  speak  to 
her  on  a  matter  of  urgency,  and  that  in  order  that  he 
might  do  so,  they  must  go  ashore  and  walk  seawards, 
far  from  interruption.  She  consented,  for  she  was 
determined  to  prove  to  him  at  close  quarters  that  she 
was  a  different  creature   from  the  other   two.      They 


IN  THE  UNIVERSE  S41 

moved  to  the  gangway  amid  discreet  manifestations 
from  the  doctor  and  the  secretary — manifestations  di- 
rected chiefly  to  Musa  and  indicative  of  his  importance 
as  a  notability.  Audrey  was  puzzled.  For  her,  Musa 
was  more  than  ever  just  Musa,  and  less  than  ever  a 
personage. 

"I  shall  not  return  to  the  yacht,"  he  said,  with  an 
excited  bitterness,  after  they  had  walked  some  distance 
along  one  of  the  paths  leading  past  low  bushes  into 
the  wilderness  of  the  marsh  land  that  bounded  the 
estuary  to  the  south.  The  sky  was  still  invisible,  but 
there  was  now  a  certain  amount  of  diffused  light,  and 
the  pale  path  could  easily  be  distinguished  amid  the 
sombreness  of  green.  The  yacht  was  hidden  behind 
one  of  the  knolls.  No  sound  could  be  heard.  The 
breeze  had  died.  That  which  was  around  them — on 
either  hand,  above,  below — was  the  universe.  They 
knew  that  they  stood  still  in  the  universe,  and  this  idea 
gave  their  youth  the  sensation  of  being  very  important. 

"What  is  that  which  you  say?"  Audrey  demanded 
sharply  in  French,  as  Musa  had  begun  in  French.  She 
was  aware,  not  for  the  first  time  with  Musa,  of  the 
sudden  possibilities  of  drama  in  a  human  being.  She 
could  scarcely  make  out  his  face,  but  she  knew  that 
he  was  in  a  mood  for  high  follies ;  she  knew  that  danger 
was  gathering;  she  knew  that  the  shape  of  the  future 
was  immediately  to  be  moulded  by  her  and  him,  and 
chiefly  by  herself.  She  liked  it.  The  sensation  of  her 
importance   was   reinforced. 

"I  say  I  shall  never  return  to  the  yacht,"  he  re- 
peated. 

She  thought  compassionatel}' : 

"Poor   foolish  thing!" 

She  was  incalculably  older  and  wiser  than  this  irra- 
tional boy.     She  was  the  essence  of  wisdom. 


342  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

She  said,  with  acid  detachment: 

"But  your  luggage,  your  belongings?  What  an  idea 
to  leave  in  this  manner !     It  is  so  polite,  so  sensible !" 

"I  shall  not  return." 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "I  do  not  at  all  understand 
why  you  are  going.  But  what  does  that  matter.?  You 
are  going."  Her  indifference  was  superb.  It  was  so 
superb  that  it  might  have  driven  some  men  to  destroy 
her  on  the  spot. 

"Yes,  you  understand !  I  told  you  last  night,"  said 
Mu8a,  overflowing  with  emotion. 

"Oh!     You  told  me.?     I  forget." 

"Naturally  Monsieur  Gilman  is  rich.  I  am  not  rich, 
though  I  shall  be.     But  you  can't  wait,"  Musa  sneered. 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Audrey. 

"Ah!"  said  Musa.  "Once  I  told  you  that  Tommy 
and  Nick  lent  me  the  money  with  which  to  live.  For 
me,  since  then,  you  have  never  been  the  same  being. 
How  stupid  I  was  to  tell  you !  You  could  not  compre- 
hend such  a  thing.  Your  soul  is  too  low  to  compre- 
hend it.  Permit  me  to  say  that  I  have  already  repaid 
Nick.  And  at  the  first  moment  I  shall  repay  Tommy. 
My  position  is  secure.  I  have  only  to  wait.  But  you 
will  not  wait.  You  are  a  bourgeoise  of  the  most  terrible 
sort.  Opulence  fascinates  you.  Mr.  Gilman  has 
opulence.  He  has  nothing  else.  But  he  has  opulence, 
and  for  you  that  is  all." 

In  an  instant  her  indifference,  self-control,  wisdom 
vanished.  It  was  a  sad  exhibition  of  frailty ;  but  she 
enjoyed  it,  she  revelled  in  it,  giving  play  to  everything 
in  herself  that  was  barbaric.  The  marsh  around  them 
was  probably  as  it  had  been  before  the  vikings  had 
sailed  into  it,  and  Audrey  rushed  back  with  inconceiv- 
able speed  into  the  past  and  became  the  primeval 
woman  of  twenty   centuries  earlier.      Like   almost   all 


IN  THE  UNIVERSE  343 

women  she  possessed  this  wondrous  and  afErighting 
faculty. 

"You  are  telling  a  wicked  untruth !"  she  exploded 
in  English.  "And  what's  more,  ^^ou  know  you  are. 
You  disgust  me.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  I  don't 
care  anything  for  money — anything.  Only  you're  a 
horrid  spoilt  beast.  You  think  you  can  upset  me,  but 
you  can't.  I  won't  have  it,  either  from  you  or  from 
anybody  else.  It's  a  shame,  that's  what  it  is.  Now 
you've  got  to  apologise  to  me.  I  absolutely  insist  on 
it.  You  aren't  going  to  bully  me,  even  if  you  think 
you  are.  I'll  soon  show  you  the  sort  of  girl  I  am,  and 
you  make  no  mistake!  Are  you  going  to  apologise  or 
aren't  you?" 

The  indecorous  creature  was  breathing  as  loudly  as 
iMr.  Gilman  himself. 

"I  admit  it,"  said  Musa  yielding. 

"Ah !" 

"I  demand  your  pardon.  I  knew  that  what  I  said 
was  not  true.  I  am  outside  myself.  But  what  would 
you.''  It  is  stronger  than  I.  This  existence  is  terrible, 
on  the  yacht.  I  cannot  support  it.  I  shall  become 
mad.     I  am  ruined.     My  jealousy  is  intolerable." 

"It  is !"  said  Audrey,  using  French  again,  more 
calmly,  having  returned  to  the  twentieth  century. 

"It  is  intolerable  to  me."  Then  Musa's  voice 
changed,  and  grew  persuasive,  rather  like  a  child's.  "I 
cannot  live  without  you.  That  is  the  truth.  I  am  an 
artist,  and  you  are  necessary  to  me  and  to  my  career." 
He  lifted  his  head.  "And  I  can  offer  you  everything 
that  Is  most  brilliant." 

"And  what  about  my  career?"  Audrey  questioned 
inimically. 

"Your  career.'"'    He  seemed  at  a  loss. 


34'i  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"Yes.  My  career.  It  has  possibly  not  occurred  to 
you  that  I  also  may  have  a  career." 

Musa  became  appealing. 

"You  understand  me,"  he  said.  "I  told  you  you 
do  not  comprehend,  but  you  comprehend  everything. 
It  is  that  which  enrages  me.  You  have  had  experience. 
You  know  what  men  are.  You  could  teach  me  so  much. 
I  hate  young  girls.  I  have  always  hated  them.  They 
are  so  tasteless,  so  insufferably  innocent.  I  could  not 
talk  to  a  young  girl  as  I  talk  to  you.  It  would  be 
absurd.     Now  as  to  my  career — what  I  said " 

"Musa,"  she  interrupted  him,  with  a  sinister 
quietude,  "I  want  to  tell  you  something.  But  you 
must  promise  to  keep  it  secret.     Will  you.^" 

He  assented,  impatient. 

"It  is  not  possible !"  he  exclaimed,  when  she  had  told 
him  that  she  belonged  to  precisely  the  category  of 
human  beings  whom  he  hated  and  despised. 

"Isn't  it.'"'  said  she.  "Now  I  hope  you  see  how  little 
you  know,  really,  about  women."     She  laughed. 

"It  is  not  possible !"  he  repeated.  And  then  he  said 
with  deliberate  ingenuousness:  *'I  am  so  content.  I 
am  so  happy.  I  could  not  have  hoped  for  it.  It  is 
overwhelming.  I  am  everything  you  like  of  the  most 
idiotic,  blind,  stupid.  But  now  I  am  happy.  Could 
I  ever  have  borne  that  you  had  loved  before  I  knew 
you?  I  doubt  if  I  could  have  borne  it.  Your  inno- 
cence is  exquisite.     It  is  intoxicating  to  me." 

"Musa,"  she  remarked  drily.  "I  wish  you  would 
remember  that  you  are  in  England.  People  do  not 
talk  in  that  way  in  England.  It  simply  is  not  done. 
And  I  will  not  listen  to  it,"  Her  voice  grew  a  little 
tender.     "Why  can  we  not  just  be  friends?" 

"It  is  folly,"  said  he,  with  sudden  disgust.  "And 
it  would  kill  me." 


IN  THE  UNIVERSE  345 

"Well,  then,"  she  replied,  receding.  "You're  en- 
titled to  die." 

He  advanced  towards  her.  She  kept  him  away  with 
a  gesture. 

"You  want  me  to  marry  you?"  she  questioned. 

"It  is  essential,"  he  said,  very  seriously.  "I  adore 
you.  I  can't  do  anything  because  of  you.  I  can't 
think  of  anything  but  you.  You  are  more  marvellous 
than  any  one  can  be.  You  cannot  appreciate  what 
you  are  to  me !" 

"And  suppose  you  are  nothing  to  me.?" 

"But  it  is  necessary  that  you  should  love  me!" 

"Why?  I  see  no  necessity.  You  want  me — because 
you  want  me.  That's  all.  I  can't  help  it  if  you're 
mad.  Your  attitude  is  insulting.  You  have  not  given 
one  thought  to  my  feelings.  And  if  I  said  'yes'  to 
you,  you'd  marry  me  whatever  my  feelings  were.  You 
think  only  of  yourself.  It  is  the  old  attitude.  And 
when  I  offer  you  my  friendship,  you  instantly  decline 
it.  That  shows  how  horribly  French  you  are.  French- 
men can't  understand  the  idea  of  friendship  between 
a  man  and  a  girl.  They  sneer  at  it.  It  shows  what 
brutes  you  all  are.  Why  should  I  marry  you?  I 
should  have  nothing  to  gain  by  it.  You'll  be  famous. 
Well,  what  do  I  care?  Do  you  think  it  would  be  very 
amusing  for  me  to  be  the  wife  of  a  famous  man  that 
was  run  after  by  every  silly  creature  in  Paris  or  Lon- 
don or  New  York?  Not  quite!  And  I  don't  see  my- 
self. You  don't  like  young  girls.  I  don't  like  young 
men.  They're  rude  and  selfish  and  conceited.  They're 
like   babies." 

"The  fact  is,"  Musa  broke  in.  "You  are  in  love 
with  the  old  Gilman." 

"He  is  not  old !"  cried  Audrey.  "In  some  ways  he  is 
much  less  worn  out  than  you  are.     And  supposing  I 


346  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

am  in  love  with  Mr.  Gilman?  Does  it  regard  you?  Do 
not  be  rude.  Mr.  Oilman  is  at  any  rate  polite.  He  is 
not  capricious.  He  is  reliable.  You  aren't  reliable. 
You  want  some  one  upon  whom  you  can  rely.  How 
nice  for  your  wife !  You  play  the  violin.  True.  You 
are  a  genius.  But  you  cannot  always  be  on  the  plat- 
form. And  when  you  are  not  on  the  platform  .  .  .  ! 
Heavens !  If  I  wish  to  hear  you  play  I  can  buy  a  seat 
and  come  and  hear  you  and  go  away  again.  But  your 
wife,  responsible  for  your  career — she  will  never  be 
free.  Her  life  will  be  unbearable.  What  anxiety! 
Misery,  I  should  say  rather !  You  would  have  the  lion's 
share  of  everything.  Now  for  myself  I  intend  to  have 
the  lion's  share.  And  why  shouldn't  I?  Isn't  it  about 
time  some  woman  had  it.!*  You  can't  have  the  lion's 
share  if  you  are  not  free.  I  mean  to  be  free.  If  I 
marry  I  shall  want  a  husband  that  is  not  a  prison 
.  .  .  Thank  goodness  I've  got  money;  .  .  .  Without 
that !" 

"Then,"  said  Musa,  "you  have  no  feeling  for  me." 

"Love.?"  she  laughed  exasperatingly. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"Not  that  much !"  She  snapped  her  fingers.  "But" 
— in  a  changed  tone — "I  should  like  to  like  you.  I 
shall  be  very  disgusted  if  your  concerts  are  not  a  tre- 
mendous success.  And  they  will  not  be  if  you  don't 
keep  control  over  yourself  and  practise  properly.  And 
it  will  be  your  fault." 

"Then,  good-bye!"  he  said,  coldly  ignoring  all  her 
maternal  suggestions.     And  turned  away. 

"Where  are  you  going  to.'"' 

He  stopped. 

"I  do  not  know.  But  if  I  do  not  deceive  myself  I 
have  already  informed  you  that  in  certain  circum- 
stances I  should  not  return  to  the  yacht." 


IN  THE  UNIVERSE  Ml 

"You  are  worse  than  a  schoolboy." 

"It  is  possible." 

"Anyway,  /  shan't  explain  on  the  yacht.  I  shall  tell 
them  that  I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"But  no  one  will  believe  you,"  he  retorted  maliciously 
over  his  shoulder.     And  then  he  was  gone. 

She  at  any  rate  was  no  longer  surrounded  by  the 
largeness  of  the  universe.  He  might  still  be,  but  she 
was  not.  She  was  in  mind  already  on  the  yacht  trying 
to  act  a  surprise  equal  to  the  surprise  of  the  others 
when  Musa  failed  to  reappear.  She  was  very  angry 
with  him,  not  because  he  had  been  a  rude  schoolboy  and 
was  entirely  impossible  as  a  human  being,  but  because 
she  had  allowed  herself  to  leave  the  yacht  with  him 
and  would  therefore  be  compelled  sooner  or  later  to 
answer  questions  about  him.  She  seriously  feared  that 
Mr.  Gilman  might  refuse  to  sail,  unless  she  confessed 
to  him  her  positive  knowledge  that  Musa  would  not  be 
seen  again,  and  that  thus  she  might  have  to  choose  be- 
tween the  failure  of  her  plans  for  Jane  Foley  and  her 
own  personal  discomfiture. 

Instead  of  being  in  the  mighty  universe,  she  was 
struggling  amid  the  tiresome  littleness  of  society  on  a 
yacht.  She  hated  yachts  for  their  very  cosiness  and 
their  quality  of  keeping  people  close  together  who 
wanted  to  be  far  apart.  And  as  she  watched  the 
figure  of  Musa  growing  fainter  she  was  more  than  ever 
impressed  by  the  queerness  of  men.  Women  seemed  to 
be  so  logical,  so  realistic,  so  understandable,  so  cal- 
culable, whereas  men  were  enigmas  of  waywardness  and 
unreason.  At  just  that  moment  her  feet  reminded  her 
that  they  had  been  wetted  by  the  adventure  in  the  punt, 
and  she  said  to  herself  sagely  that  she  must  take  pre- 
cautions against  a  chill. 

And  then   she   thought  she   detected   some   unusual 


348  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

phenomenon  behind  a  clump  of  bushes  to  the  right 
which  hid  a  plank-bridge  across  a  waterway.  She 
would  have  been  frightened  if  she  had  not  been  very 
excited.  And  in  her  excitement  she  marched  straight 
up  to  the  clump,  and  found  Mr.  Hurley  in  a  crouching 
posture.     She  started,  and  recovered. 

"I  might  have  known !"  she  said,  disdainfully. 

"We  all  make  mistakes,"  said  Mr.  Hurley  defen- 
sively. "We  all  make  mistakes.  I  knew  I'd  made  a 
mistake  as  soon  as  I  got  here,  but  I  couldn't  get  away 
quietly  enough.  And  you  talked  so  loud.  Ye'll  admit 
I  had  just  cause  for  suspicion.  And  being  a  very 
agreeable  lady  ye'll  pardon  me." 

She  blushed,  and  then  ceased  blushing  because  it 
was  too  dark  for  him  to  perceive  the  blush,  and  she 
passed  on  without  a  word.  When,  across  the  waste, 
she  had  come  within  sight  of  the  yacht  again,  she 
heard  footsteps  behind  her,  and  turned  to  withstand 
the  detective.     But  the  overtaker  was  Musa. 

"It  is  necessary  that  I  should  return  to  the  yacht," 
he  said  savagely.  "The  thought  of  you  and  Monsieur 
Gilman  together,  without  me.  .  .  .  No !  Idid  not  know 
myself  ...  I  did  not  know  myself.  .  .  .  It  is  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  leave." 

She  made  no  answer  They  boarded  the  yacht  as 
though  they  had  been  for  a  stroll.  Few  could  have 
guessed  that  they  had  come  back  from  the  universe,  ter- 
ribly scathed.  Accepting  deferential  greetings  as  a 
right,  Musa  vanished  rapidly  to  his  cabin. 

Several  hours  later  Audrey  and  Mr.  Gilman,  alone 
among  the  passengers,  were  standing  together,  both 
tarpaulined,  on  the  starboard  bow,  gazing  seaward  as 
the  yacht  cautiously  felt  her  way  down  Mozewater. 
Captain  Wyatt,  and  not  Mr.  Gilman,  was  at  the  bin- 


IN  THE  UNIVERSE  349 

nacle.  A  little  rain  was  falling  and  the  night  was 
rather  thick  but  not  impenetrable. 

"There's  the  light !"  said  Audrey  excitedly. 

"What  sharp  eyes  you  have !"  said  Mr.  Gilman.  "I 
can  see  it,  too."  He  spoke  a  word  to  the  skipper,  and 
the  skipper  spoke,  and  then  the  engine  went  still  more 
slowly. 

The  yacht  approached  the  Flank  Buoy  dead  slow, 
scarcely  stemming  the  tide.  The  Moze  punt  was  tied 
up  to  the  buoy,  and  Aguilar  held  a  lantern  on  a  boat- 
hook,  while  Jane  Foley,  very  wet,  was  doing  a  spell 
of  baling.  Aguilar  dropped  the  boathook  and,  casting 
off,  brought  the  punt  alongside  the  yacht.  The  steps 
were  lowered  and  Jane  Foley,  with  laughing,  rain- 
sprinkled  face,  climbed  up.  Aguilar  handed  her  bag 
which  contained  nearly  everything  she  possessed  on 
earth.  She  and  Audrey  kissed  calmly,  and  Audrey  pre- 
sented Mr.  Gilman  to  a  suddenly  shy  Jane.  In  the 
punt  Miss  Foley  had  been  seen  to  take  an  affectionate 
leave  of  Aguilar.     She  now  leaned  over  the  rail. 

"Good-bye !"  she  said,  with  warmth.  "Thanks  ever 
so  much.  It's  been  splendid.  I  do  hope  you  won't  be 
too  wet.  Can  you  row  all  the  way  home.^"'  She 
shivered. 

"I  shall  go  back  on  the  tide,  Miss  Foley,"  answered 
Aguilar. 

He  touched  his  cap  to  Audrey,  mumbled  gloomily  a 
salutation,  and  loosed  his  hold  on  the  yacht;  and  at 
once  the  punt  felt  the  tide  and  began  to  glide  away  in 
the  darkness  towards  Moze.  The  yacht's  engine  quick- 
ened.   Flank  Buoy  faded. 

Mr.  Gilman  and  the  two  girls  made  a  group. 

"You're  wonderful!  You  really  are!"  said  Mr.  Gil- 
man, addressing  apparently  the  pair  of  them.    He  was 


350  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

enthusiastic,  .  .  .  He  added  with  grandeur :  "And 
now  for  France!" 

"I  do  hope  Mr.  Hurley  is  still  hanging  about  Moze," 
said  Audrey.  "Mr.  Gilman,  shall  I  show  Miss  Foley 
her  cabin.''     She's  rather  wet." 

"Oh,  do !  Oh,  do,  please !  But  don't  forget  that  we 
are  to  have  supper  together.     I  insist  on  supper." 

And  Audrey  thought :  "How  agreeable  he  is !  How 
kind-hearted!  He  hasn't  got  any  'career'  to  worry 
about,  and  I  adore  him,  and  he's  as  simple  as  knitting." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 


THE  IMMINENT  DRIVE 


"Oh  !"  cried  Miss  Thompkins.  "You  can  see  it  from 
here.     It's  funn^'^  how  unreal  it  seems,  isn't  it?" 

She  pointed  at  one  of  the  large  white-curtained  win- 
dows of  the  restaurant,  through  which  was  visible  a 
round  column  covered  with  advertisements  of  theatres, 
music-halls,  and  concert-halls,  printed  in  many  colours 
and  announcing  superlative  delights.  Names  famous 
wherever  pleasure  is  understood  gave  to  their  varie- 
gated posters  a  pleasant  air  of  distinguished  familiar- 
ity,— names  of  theatres  such  as  "Varietes,"  "Vaude- 
ville," "Chatelet,"  "Theatre  Fran9ais,"  "Folies-Ber- 
gere,"  and  names  of  persons  such  as  "Sarah  Bern- 
hardt," "Huegenet,"  "Le  Bargy,"  "Litvinne,"  "La- 
valliere.'  But  the  name  in  the  largest  type — dark 
crimson  letters  on  rose  paper — the  name  dominating  all 
the  rest,  was  the  name  of  Musa.  The  ingenuous 
stranger  to  Paris  was  compelled  to  think  that  as  an 
artist  Musa  was  far  more  important  than  anybody 
else.  Along  the  length  of  all  the  principal  boulevards, 
and  in  many  of  the  lesser  streets,  the  ingenuous 
stranger  encountered,  at  regular  distances  of  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  or  so,  one  of  these  columns  planted 
on  the  kerb;  and  all  the  scores  of  them  bore  exactly 
the  same  legend;  they  all  spoke  of  nothing  but  blissful 
diversions,  and  they  all  put  Musa  ahead  of  anybody 
else  in  the  world  of  the  stage  and  the  platform.  Sarah 
Bernhardt  herself,  dark  blue  upon  pale,  was   a  trifle 

.351 


S52  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

t 

compared  to  Musa  on  the  columns.  And  it  had  been 
so  for  days.  Other  posters  were  changed  daily — 
changed  by  mysterious  hands  before  even  bread-girls 
were  afoot  with  their  ^^ards  of  bread — but  the  space 
given  to  Musa  repeated  always  the  same  tidings,  namely 
that  Musa  ("the  great  violinist")  was  to  give  an  or- 
chestral concert  at  the  Salle  Xavier,  assisted  by  the 
Xavier  orchestra,  on  Thursday,  September  Sith,  at 
9  p.  m.     Particulars  of  the  programme  followed. 

Paris  was  being  familiarised  with  Musa.  His  four 
letters  looked  down  upon  the  fever  of  the  thorough- 
fares ;  they  were  perused  by  tens  of  thousands  of  sit- 
ters in  cafes  and  in  front  of  cafes ;  they  caught  the  eye 
of  men  and  women  fleeing  from  the  wrath  to  come  in 
taxi-cabs ;  they  competed  successfully  with  newspaper 
placards ;  and  on  that  Thursday — for  the  Thursday  in 
question  had  already  run  more  than  half  its  course — 
they  had  so  entered  into  the  sub-conscious  brain  of 
Paris  that  no  habitue  of  the  streets,  whatever  his  ig- 
norant indifference  to  the  art  of  music,  could  have  failed 
to  reply  with  knowledge,  on  hearing  Musa. mentioned. 
"Oh,  yes !"  implying  that  he  was  fully  acquainted  with 
the  existence  of  the  said  Musa. 

Tommy  was  right :  there  did  seem  to  be  a  certain 
unreality  about  the  thing;  yet  it  was  utterly  real. 

All  the  women  turned  to  glance  at  the  name  through 
the  window,  and  some  of  them  murmured  sympathetic 
and  interested  exclamations  and  bright  hopes.  There 
were  five  women:  Miss  Thompkins,  Miss  Nickall,  Ma- 
dame Piriac,  Miss  Ingate  and  Audrey.  And  there  was 
one  man, — Mr.  Oilman.  And  the  six  were  seated  at  a 
round  table  in  the  historic  Parisian  restaurant.  Mr. 
Oilman  had  the  air  triumphant,  and  he  was  entitled 
to  it.  The  supreme  moment  of  his  triumph  had  come. 
Having  given  a  luncheon  to  these  ladies,  he  had  just 


THE  IJVDIINENT  DRIVE  353 

asked,  with  due  high  negligence,  for  the  bill.  If  there 
was  one  matter  in  which  ]Mr.  Gilman  was  a  truly  great 
expert,  it  was  the  matter  of  giving  a  meal  in  a  res- 
taurant. He  knew  how  to  dress  for  such  an  affair — 
with  strict  conventionality  but  a  touch  of  devil-may- 
care  youthfulness  in  the  necktie.  He  knew  how  to 
choose  the  restaurant;  he  had  about  half  a  dozen  in 
his  repertoire — all  of  the  first  order  and  for  the  most 
part  combining  the  exclusive  with  the  amusing — en- 
tirely different  in  kind  from  the  pandemonium  where 
Audrey  had  eaten  on  the  night  of  her  first  arrival  in 
Paris ;  he  knew  how  to  get  the  best  out  of  head-waiters 
and  waiters,  who  in  these  restaurants  were  not  head- 
waiters  and  waiters  but  worldly  priests  and  acolytes ; 
his  profound  knowledge  of  cookery  sprang  from  a  genu- 
ine interest  in  his  stomach,  and  he  could  compose  a 
menu  in  a  fashion  to  command  the  respect  of  head- 
waiters  and  to  excite  the  envy  of  musicians  composing 
a  sonata ;  he  had  the  wit  to  look  in  early  and  see  to 
the  flowers ;  above  all  he  was  aware  what  women  liked 
in  the  way  of  wine,  and  since  this  was  never  what  he 
liked  in  the  way  of  wine,  he  would  always  command  a 
half  bottle  of  the  extra  dry  for  himself,  but  would 
have  it  manipulated  with  such  discretion  that  not  a 
guest  could  notice  it.  He  paid  lavishly  and  willingly, 
convinced  by  hard  experience  that  the  best  is  inestima- 
ble, but  he  felt  too  that  the  best  was  really  quite  cheap, 
for  he  knew  that  there  were  imperfectly  educated  peo- 
ple in  the  world  who  thought  nothing  of  paying  the 
price  of  a  good  meal  for  a  mere  engraving  or  a  bit  of 
china.  Withal,  he  never  expected  his  guests  truly  to 
appreciate  the  marvels  he  offered  them.  They  could 
not,  or  very  rarely.  Their  twittering  ecstatic  praise, 
which  was  without  understanding,  sufficed  for  him, 
though  sometimes  he  would  give  gentle  diffident  instruc- 


354  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

tion.  This  trait  in  him  was  very  attractive,  proving 
the  genuineness  of  his  modesty. 

The  luncheon  was  partly  to  celebrate  the  return  of 
various  persons  to  Paris,  but  chiefly  in  honour  of 
Musa's  concert.  Musa  could  not  be  present,  for  dis- 
tinguished public  performers  do  not  show  themselves 
on  the  day  of  an  appearance.  Mr.  Gilman  had  learnt 
this  from  Madame  Piriac,  whom  he  had  consulted  as 
to  the  list  of  guests.  It  is  to  be  said  that  he  bore  the 
absence  of  Musa  from  his  table  with  stoicism.  For  the 
rest,  Madame  Piriac  knew  that  he  wanted  no  other  men, 
and  she  had  suggested  none.  She  had  assumed  that  he 
desired  Audrey,  and  had  pointed  out  that  Audrey 
could  not  well  be  invited  without  Miss  Ingate,  who,  sick 
of  her  old  Moze,  had  rejoined  Audrey  in  the  splendour 
of  the  Hotel  du  Danube.  Mr.  Gilman  had  somehow 
mentioned  Miss  Thompkins,  whereupon  Madame  Piriac 
had  declared  that  Miss  Thompkins  involved  Miss  Nic- 
all,  who  after  a  complete  recovery  from  the  broken 
arm  had  returned  for  a  while  to  her  studio.  And  then 
Mr.  Gilman  had  closed  the  list,  saying  that  six  was 
enough,  and  exactly  the  right  number. 

"At  what  o'clock  are  you  going  for  the  drive?" 
asked  Madame  Piriac  in  her  improved,  precise  English. 
She  looked  equally  at  her  self-styled  uncle  and  at 
Audrey. 

"I  ordered  the  car  for  three  o'clock,"  answered  Mr. 
Gilman.    "It  is  not  yet  quite  three." 

The  table  with  its  litter  of  ash-trays,  empty  cups, 
empty  small  glasses,  and  ravaged  sweets,  and  the  half- 
deserted  restaurant,  and  the  polite  expectant  weariness 
of  the  priests  and  acolytes,  all  showed  that  the  hour 
was  in  fact  not  quite  three, — an  hour  at  which  such 
interiors  have  invariably  the  aspect  of  roses  overblown 
and  about  to  tumble  to  pieces. 


THE  IMMINENT  DRIVE  355 

And  Immediately  upon  the  reference  to  the  drive 
everybody  at  the  table  displayed  a  little  constraint, 
avoiding  the  gaze  of  everybody  else,  thus  demonstrating 
that  the  imminent  drive  was  a  delicate,  without  being 
a  disagreeable,  topic.     Which  requires  explanation. 

Mr.  Gilman  had  not  been  seen  by  any  of  his  guests 
during  the  summer.  He  had  landed  them  at  Boulogne 
from  the  Ariadne, — sound  but  for  one  casualty.  That 
casualty  was  Jane  Foley,  suffering  from  pneumonia, 
which  had  presumably  developed  during  the  evening  of 
exposure  spent  with  Aguilar  in  the  leaking  punt  and 
in  rain  showers.  Madame  Piriac  and  Audrey  took 
her  to  Wimereux  and  there  nursed  her  through  a  long 
and  sometimes  dangerous  illness.  Jane  possessed  no 
constitution,  but  she  had  obstinacy,  which  saved  her. 
In  her  convalescence,  part  of  which  she  spent  alone 
with  Audrey  (Madame  Piriac  having  to  pay  visits  to 
Monsieur  Piriac),  she  had  proceeded  with  the  writing 
of  a  book,  and  she  had  also  received  in  conclave  the 
rarely  seen  Rosamund,  who  like  herself  was  still  a  fu- 
gitive from  British  justice.  These  two  had  been  elabo- 
rating a  new  plan  of  campaign,  which  was  to  include 
an  incursion  by  themselves  into  England,  and  which 
had  in  part  been  confided  by  Jane  to  Audrey,  who,  hav- 
ing other  notions  in  her  head,  had  been  somewhat 
troubled  thereby.  Audrey's  conscience  had  occasion- 
ally told  her  to  throw  herself  heartily  into  the  cam- 
paign, but  her  individualistic  instincts  had  in  the  end 
kept  her  safely  on  a  fence  between  the  campaign  and 
something  else.  The  something  else  was  connected  with 
Mr.  Gilman. 

Mr.  Gilman  had  written  to  her  regularly ;  he  had 
sent  dazzling  subscriptions  to  the  Suffragettes  Union ; 
and  Audrey  had  replied  regularly.  His  letters  were 
very  simple,  very  modest,  and  quite  touching.     They 


356  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

were  dated  from  various  coastal  places.  However,  he 
never  came  near  Wimereux,  though  it  was  a  coastal 
place.  Audrey  had  excusably  deemed  this  odd;  but 
Madame  Piriac  having  once  said  with  marked  casual- 
ness,  "I  hinted  to  him  that  he  might  with  advantage 
stay  away,"  Audrey  had  concealed  her  thoughts  on 
the  point.  And  one  of  her  thoughts  was  that  Madame 
Piriac  was  keeping  them  apart  so  as  to  try  them,  so 
as  to  test  their  mutual  feelings.  The  policj^,  if  it  was 
a  policy,  was  very  like  Madame  Piriac ;  it  had  the  effect 
of  investing  Mr.  Gilman  in  Audrey's  mind  with  a  pecu- 
liar romantic  and  wistful  charm,  as  of  a  sighing  and 
obedient  victim.  Then  Jane  Foley  and  Rosamund  had 
gone  off  somewhere,  and  Madame  Piriac  and  Audrey 
had  returned  to  Paris,  and  had  found  that  practically 
all  Paris  had  returned  to  Paris  too.  And  on  the  first 
meeting  with  Mr.  Gilman  it  had  been  at  once  estab- 
lished that  his  feelings  and  those- of  Audrey  had  sur- 
mounted the  Piriac  test.  Within  forty-eight  hours  all 
persons  interested  had  mysteriously  assumed  that  Mr. 
Gilman  and  Audrey  were  coupled  together  by  fate  and 
that  a  delicious  crisis  was  about  to  supervene  in  their 
earthly  progress.  And  they  had  become  objects  of  ex- 
quisite solicitude.  They  had  also  become  perfect.  A 
circle  of  friends  and  acquaintances  waited  in  excited 
silence  for  a  palpitating  event,  as  a  populace  waits  for 
the  booming  gunfire  which  is  to  inaugurate  a  national 
rejoicing.  And  when  the  news  exuded  that  he  was  tak- 
ing her  for  a  drive  to  Meudon,  which  she  had  never 
seen,  alone,  all  decided  beyond  any  doubt  that  he  mould 
do  it  during  the  drive. 

Hence  the  nice  constraint  at  the  table  when  the  drive 
grew  publicly  and  avowedly  imminent. 

Audrey,  as  the  phrase  is,  "felt  her  position  keenly," 
but  not  unpleasantly,  nor  with  understanding.     Not  a 


THE  IMMINENT  DRIVE  S57 

word  had  passed  of  late  between  herself  and  Mr.  GIl- 
inan  that  any  acquaintance  might  not  have  listened  to. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Oilman  had  become  slightly  more  formal. 
She  liked  him  for  that,  as  she  liked  him  for  a  large 
number  of  qualities.  She  did  not  know  whether  she 
loved  him.  And  strange  to  say,  the  question  did  not 
passionately  interest  her.  The  only  really  interest- 
ing questions  were:  Would  he  propose  to  her?  And 
would  she  accept  him.?  She  had  no  logical  ground  for 
assuming  that  he  would  propose  to  her.  None  of  her 
friends  had  informed  her  of  the  general  expectation 
that  he  would  propose  to  her.  Yet  she  knew  that  every- 
body expected  him  to  propose  to  her  quite  soon, — in- 
deed within  the  next  couple  of  hours.  And  she  felt  that 
everybody  was  right.  The  universe  was  full  of  mys- 
teries for  Audrey.  As  regards  her  answer  to  any  pro- 
posal, she  foresaw — another  mystery — that  it  would 
not  depend  upon  self-examination  or  upon  reason,  or 
upon  anything  that  could  be  defined.  It  would  depend 
upon  an  instinct  over  which  her  mind — nay,  even  her 
heart — had  no  control.  She  was  quite  certaintly  aware 
that  this  instinct  would  instruct  her  brain  to  instruct 
her  lips  to  say  Yes.  The  idea  of  saying  No  simply 
could  not  be  conceived.  All  the  forces  in  the  universe 
would  combine  to  prevent  her  from  saying  No. 

The  one  thing  that  might  have  countered  that  enig- 
matic and  powerful  instinct  was  a  consideration  based 
upon  the  difference  between  her  age  and  that  of  Mr. 
Gilman.  It  is  true  that  she  did  not  know  what  the 
difference  was,  because  she  did  not  know  Mr.  Oilman's 
age.  And  she  could  not  ask  him.  No!  Such  is  the 
structure  of  society  that  she  could  not  say  to  Mr. 
Gilman,  "By  the  way,  Mr.  Gilman,  how  old  are  you?" 
She  could  properly  ascertain  his  tastes  about  all  man- 
ner of  fundamental  points,  such  as  the  shape  of  chair- 


358  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

legs,  the  correct  hour  for  dining,  or  the  comparative 
merits  of  diamonds  and  emeralds ;  but  this  trifle  of  in- 
formation about  his  age  could  not  be  asked  for.  And 
he  did  not  make  her  a  present  of  it.  She  might  have 
questioned  Madame  Piriac,  but  she  could  not  persuade 
herself  to  question  Madame  Piriac  either.  However, 
what  did  it  matter?  Even  if  she  learnt  his  age  to  a 
day,  he  would  still  be  precisely  the  same  Mr.  Gilman. 
And  let  him  be  as  old  or  as  young  as  he  might,  she 
was  still  his  equal  in  age.  She  was  far  more  than  six 
months  older  than  she  had  been  six  months  ago. 

The  influence  of  Madame  Piriac  through  the  summer 
had  indirectly  matured  her.  For  above  all  Madame 
Piriac  had  imperceptibly  taught  her  the  everlasting 
joy  and  duty  of  exciting  the  sympathy,  admiration 
and  gratitude  of  the  other  sex.  Hence  Audrey  had 
aged  at  a  miraculous  rate  because  in  order  to  please 
Mr.  Gilman  she  wished — possibly  without  knowing  it — 
to  undo  the  disparity  between  herself  and  him.  This 
may  be  strange,  but  it  is  assuredly  more  true  than 
strange.  To  the  same  end  she  had  concealed  her  own 
age.  Nobody  except  Miss  Ingate  knew  how  old  she 
was.  She  only  made  it  clear,  when  doubts  seemed  to 
exist,  that  she  had  passed  her  majority  long  before. 
Further,  her  wealth,  magnified  by  legend,  assisted  her 
age.  Not  that  she  was  so  impressed  by  her  wealth  as 
she  had  been.  She  had  met  American  women  in  Paris 
compared  to  whom  she  was  at  destitution's  door.  She 
knew  one  woman  who  had  kept  a  2,000-ton  yacht  lying 
all  summer  in  the  outer  harbour  at  Boulogne,  and  had 
used  it  during  that  period  for  exactly  eleven  hours. 

Few  of  these  people  had  an  establishment.  They 
would  rent  floors  in  hotels,  or  chateaux  in  Touraine,  or 
3'achts,  but  they  had  no  home,  and  yet  they  seemed  very 
content  and  beyond  doubt  they  were  very  free.     And 


THE  Ij\LVIINENT  DRIVE  359 

so  Audrey  did  not  trouble  about  having  a  home.  She 
had  Moze,  which  was  more  than  many  of  her  acquaint- 
ances had.  She  would  not  use  it,  but  she  had  it.  And 
she  was  content  in  the  knowledge  of  the  power  to  create 
a  home  when  she  felt  inclined  to  create  one.  Not  that 
it  would  not  have  been  absurd  to  set  about  creating  a 
home  with  Mr.  Gilman  hanging  over  her  like  a  des- 
tiny. It  would  have  been  rude  to  him  to  do  so ;  it 
would  have  been  to  transgress  against  the  inter-sexual 
code  as  promulgated  by  Madame  Piriac.  .  .  .  She 
wondered  what  sort  of  a  place  Meuden  was,  and  whether 
he  would  propose  to  her  while  they  were  looking  at  the 
view  together.  .  .  .  She  trembled  with  the  sense  of 
adventure,  which  had  little  to  do  with  happiness  or 
unhappiness.  .  .  .  But  would  he  propose  to  her.''  Not 
improbably  the  whole  conception  of  the  situation  was 
false  and  she  was  being  ridiculous ! 

Still  the  nice  constraint  persisted  as  the  women  began 
to  put  on  their  gloves,  while  Mr.  Gilman  had  a  word 
with  the  chief  priest.  And  Audrey  had  the  illusion  of 
being  a  dedicated  victim.  As  she  self-consciously  and 
yet  proudly  handled  her  gloves  she  could  not  help  but 
notice  the  simple  gold  wedding-ring  on  a  certain  finger. 
She  had  never  removed  it.  She  had  never  formally  re- 
nounced her  claim  to  the  status  of  a  widow.  That  she 
was  not  a  widow,  that  she  had  been  guilty  of  a  fraud 
on  a  gullible  pubhc,  was  somehow  generally  known ;  but 
the  facts  were  not  referred  to,  save  perhaps  in  rare 
hints  by  Tommy,  and  she  had  continued  to  be  known 
as  Mrs.  MoncreifF.  Ignominous  close  to  a  daring  enter- 
prise !  And  in  the  circumstances  nothing  was  more 
out  of  place  than  the  ring,  bought  in  cold,  wilful,  cal- 
culating naughtiness  at  Colchester. 

Just  when  Miss  Ingate  was  beginning  to  discuss  her 
own  plans  for  the  afternoon,  Mr.  Price  entered  the  res- 


360  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

taurant,  and  as  he  did  so  Miss  Thompkins,  saying  some- 
thing about  the  small  type  on  the  poster  outside,  went 
to  the  window  to  examine  it.  Mr.  Price,  disguised  as  a 
discreet  dandy-about-town,  bore  a  parcel  of  music.  He 
removed  a  most  glossy  hat ;  he  bowed  to  the  whole  com- 
pany of  ladies,  who  responded  with  smiles  in  which 
was  acknowledged  that  he  was  a  dandy  in  addition  to 
being  a  secretary ;  and  lastly  with  deference  he  handed 
the  parcel  of  music  to  Mr.  Gilman. 

"So  you  did  get  it!    What  did  I  tell  you.?"  said  Mr. . 
Gilman  with  negligent  condescension.     "A  minute  later, 
and  we  should  have  been  gone.   .  .   .  Has  Mr.  Price  got 
this   right.?"  he  asked  Audrey,  putting  the  music  re- 
spectfully in  front  of  her. 

It  included  the  reduced  score  of  the  Beethoven  violin 
concerto,  and  other  items  to  be  performed  that  night 
at  the  Salle  Xavier. 

"Oh!  Thank  you,  Mr.  Price!"  said  Audrey.  The 
music  was  so  fresh  and  glossy  and  luscious  to  the  eye 
that  it  was  like  a  gift  of  fruit. 

"That'll  do  then,  Price,"  said  Mr.  Gilman.  "Don't 
forget  about  those  things  for  to-night,  will  you,?" 
"No,  sir.  I  have  a  note  of  all  of  them." 
Mr.  Price  bowed  and  turned  away,  assuming  his 
perfect  hat.  As  he  approached  the  door  Tommy  in- 
tercepted him;  and  said  something  to  him  in  a  low 
voice,  to  which  he  uncomfortably  mumbled  a  reply. 
As  they  had  admittedly  been  friends  in  Mr.  Price's 
artistic  days,  exception  could  not  be  taken  to  this  col- 
loquy. Nevertheless  Audrey,  being  as  suspicious  as  a 
real  widow,  regarded  it  iU,  thinking  all  manner  of 
things.  And  when  Tommy,  humming,  came  back  to  her 
seat  on  Mr.  Gilman's  left  hand,  Audrey  thought :  "And 
why  after  ail  should  she  be  on  his  left  hand.?  It  is  of 
course  proper  that  I  should  be  on  his  right,  but  why 


THE  IMMINENT  DRIVE  361 

should  Tommy  be  on  his  left?  Why  not  Madame  Piriac 
or  Miss  Ingate?" 

"And  what  am  /  going  to  do  this  afternoon?"  de- 
manded Miss  Ingate,  lengthening  the  space  between 
her  nose  and  her  upper  lip,  and  turning  down  the 
corners  of  her  lower  lip. 

"You  have  to  try  that  new  dress  on,  Winnie,"  said 
Audrey  rather  reprovingly. 

"Alone?  Me  go  alone  there?  I  wouldn't  do  it.  It's 
not  respectable  the  way  they  look  at  you  and  add  you 
up  and  question  you  in  those  trying-on  rooms,  when 
they've  got  you." 

"Well,  take  Elise  with  you." 

"Me  take  Elise?  I  won't  do  it,  not  unless  I  could 
keep  her  mouth  full  of  pins  all  the  time.  Whenever 
we're  alone,  and  her  mouth  isn't  full  of  pins,  she  always 
talks  to  me  as  if  I  was  an  actress.     And  I'm  not." 

"Well,  then,"  said.  Miss  Nickall  kindly,  "come  with 
me  and  Tommy.  We  haven't  anything  to  do,  and  I'm 
taking  Tommy  to  see  Jane  Foley.  Jane  would  love 
to  see  you." 

"She  might,"  replied  Miss  Ingate.  "Oh!  She  might. 
But  I  think  I'll  walk  across  to  the  hotel  and  just  go 
to  bed  and  sleep  it  off." 

"Sleep  what  off?"  asked  Tommy,  with  necklace  rat- 
tling and  orchidaceous  eyes  glittering. 

"Oh!  Everything!  Everything!"  shrieked  Miss 
Ingate. 

There  was  one  other  customer  left  in  the  restaurant, 
a  solitary  fair,  fat  man,  and  as  Mr.  Oilman's  party 
was  leaving,  Audrey  last,  this  solitary  fair,  fat  man 
caught  her  eye,  bowed,  and  rose.  It  was  Mr.  Cowl, 
secretary  of  the  National  Reformation  Society.  He 
greeted  her  with  the  assurance  of  an  old  and  valued 
friend,  and  he  called  her  neither  Miss  nor  Mrs. ;  he 


362  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

called  her  nothing  at  all.     Audrey  accepted  his  lead. 

"And  is  your  society  still  alive?"  she  asked  with 
casual  polite  disdain. 

"Going  strong!"  said  Mr.  Cowl.  "More  flourishing 
than  ever— in  spite  of  our  bad  luck."  He  lifted  his 
sandy-coloured  eyebrows.  "Of  course  I'm  here  on  So- 
ciety business.  In  fact  I  often  have  to  come  to  Paris 
on  Society  business."  His  glance  deprecated  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  table  over  which  his  rounded  form  was 
protruding. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  have  seen  you  again,"  said 
Audrey,  holding  out  her  hand. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Mr.  Cowl,  drawing  some  tickets 
from  his  pocket.  "I  wonder  whether  you — and  your 
friends — would  care  to  go  to  a  concert  to-night  at 
the  Salle  Xavier.  The  concierge  at  my  hotel  is  giv- 
ing tickets  away,  and  I  took  some — rather  to  oblige 
him  than  anything  else.  For  one  never  knows  when 
a  concierge  ma}^  not  be  useful.  I  don't  suppose  it  will 
be  anything  great,  but  it  will  pass  the  time,  and — er — 
strangers  in  Paris " 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Cowl,  but  I'm  not  a  stranger  in 
Paris.     I  live  here." 

"Oh !  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Cowl.  "Excuse 
me.  Then  you  won't  take  them.'*  Pity!  I  hate  to  see 
anything  wasted." 

Audrey  was  both  desolated  and  infuriated. 

"Remember  me  respectfully  to  Miss  Ingate,  please," 
finished  Mr.  Cowl.     "She  didn't  see  me  as  she  passed." 

He  returned  the  tickets  to  his  pocket. 

Outside  IMadame  Piriac,  standing  by  her  automo- 
bile, which  had  rolled  up  with  the  silence  of  a  halluci- 
nation, took  leave  of  Audrey, 

"Eh  hien!  Au  rcvoir!''  said  she  shortly,  with  a  pecu- 
liar challenging  half-smile,  which  seemed  to  be  saying, 


THE  IIMMINENT  DRIVE  363 


(C 


Are  you  going  to  be  worthy  of  my  education?  Let 
us  hope  so." 

And  Miss  Nickall,  with  her  grey  hair  growing  fluffier 
under  a  somewhat  raking  hat,  said  with  a  smile  of 
sheer  intense  watchful  benevolence : 

"Well,  good-bye!" 

While  Nick  was  ecstatically  thanking  Mr.  Giiman 
for  his  hospitahty,  Tommy  called  Audrey  aside.  Ma- 
dame Piriac's  car  had  vanished. 

"Have  you  heard  about  the  rehearsal  this  morning?" 
she  asked,  in  a  confidential  tone,  anxious  and  yet 
quizzical. 

"No!  What  about  it?"  Audrey  demanded.  Various 
apprehensions  were  competing  for  attention  in  her 
brain.  The  episode  of  Mr.  Cowl  had  agitated  her  con- 
siderably. And  now  she  was  standing  right  against 
the  column  bearing  Musa's  name  in  those  large  letters, 
and  other  columns  up  and  down  the  gay  busy  street 
echoed  clear  the  name.  And  how  unreal  it  was !  .  .  . 
Tickets  being  given  away  in  half-dozens !  .  .  .  She 
ought  to  have  been  profoundly  disturbed  by  such  a 
revelation,  and  she  was.  But  here  was  the  drive  with 
Mr.  Giiman  insisting  on  a  monopoly  of  all  her  facul- 
ties. And  on  the  top  of  everything — Tommy  with  her 
strange  gaze  and  tone!  Tommy  carefully  hesitated 
before  replying. 

"He  lost  his  temper  and  left  it  in  the  middle — or- 
chestra and  conductor  and  Xavier  and  all!  And  he 
swore  he  wouldn't  play  to-night." 

"Nonsense !" 

"Yes,  he  did." 

"Who  told  you?" 

Already  the  two  women  were  addressing  each  other 
as  foes. 

"A  man  I  know  in  the  orchestra." 


364  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  us  at  once — when  you  came?" 

"Well,  I  didn't  want  to  spoil  the  luncheon.  But  of 
course  I  ought  to  have  done.  You,  at  any  rate,  seeing 
your  interest  in  the  concert !     I'm  sorry." 

"My  interest  in  the  concert?"  Audrey  objected. 

"Well,  my  girl,"  said  Tommy,  half-ca j  olingly  and 
half-threateningly,  "you  aren't  going  to  stand  there 
and  tell  me  to  my  face  that  you  haven't  put  up  that 
concert  for  him." 

"Put   up   the   concert!     Put  up   the "   Audrey 

knew  she  was  blushing. 

"Paid  for  it!  Paid  for  it!'  said  Tommy  with  im- 
patience. 


CHAPTER  XL 


GENIUS   AT    BAY 


Audrey  got  away  from  the  group  in  front  of  the 
restaurant  with  stammering  words  and  crimson  con- 
fusion. She  ran.  She  stopped  a  taxi  and  stumbled 
into  it.  There  remained  with  her  vividly  the  vision  of 
the  startled,  entirely  puzzled  face  of  Mr.  Gilman,  who 
in  an  instant  had  been  transformed  from  a  happy, 
dignified  and  excusably  self-satisfied  human  male  into 
an  outraged  rebel  whose  grievance  had  overwhelmed  his 
dignity.  She  had  said  hurriedly:  "Please  excuse  me 
not  coming  with  you.  But  Tommy  says  something's 
happened  to  Musa  and  I  must  go  and  see.  It's  ve'ry 
important."  And  that  was  all  she  had  said.  Had 
she  asked  him  to  drive  her  to  Musa's,  Mr.  Gilman 
would  have  been  very  pleased  to  do  so ;  but  she  did  not 
think  of  that  till  it  was  too  late.  Her  precipitancy  had 
been  terrible,  and  had  staggered  even  Tommy.  She  had 
no  idea  how  the  group  would  arrange  itself.  And  she 
had  no  very  clear  idea  as  to  what  was  wrong  with  Musa 
or  how  matters  stood  in  regard  to  the  concert.  Tommy 
had  asserted  that  she  did  not  know  whether  the  or- 
chestra and  its  conductor  meant  to  be  at  their  desks 
in  the  evening  just  as  though  nothing  whatever  had 
occurred  at  the  rehearsal.  All  was  vague,  and  all  was 
disturbing.  She  had  asked  Tommy  the  authority  for 
her  assertion  that  she,  Audrey,  was  financing  the  con- 
cert. To  which  Tommy  had  replied  that  she  had 
"guessed,   of   course."     And   seeing  that  Audrey  had 

365 


366  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

only  interviewed  a  concert-agent  once — and  he  a  Lon- 
don concert-agent  with  relations  in  Paris — and  that  she 
had  never  uttered  a  word  about  the  affair  to  anybody 
except  Mr.  Foulger,  who  had  been  keeping  an  eye  on 
the  expenditure,  it  was  not  improbable  that  Tommy  had 
just  guessed.  But  she  had  guessed  right.  She  was  an 
uncanny  woman.  "Have  you  ever  spoken  to  Musa 
about — it.P"  Audrey  had  passionately  demanded;  and 
Tommy  had  answered  also  passionately:  "Of  course 
not.  I'm  a  white  woman  all  through.  Haven't  you 
learnt  that  yet?" 

The  taxi,  although  it  was  a  horse-taxi  and  incapable 
of  moving  at  more  than  five  miles  an  hour,  reached  the 
Rue  Cassette,  which  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  river 
and  quite  a  long  way  off,  in  no  time.  That  is  to  say, 
Audrey  was  not  aware  that  any  time  had  passed.  She 
had  received  the  address  from  Tommy,  for  it  was  a 
new  address,  Musa  having  admittedly  risen  in  the  world. 
The  house  was  an  old  one ;  it  had  a  curious  staircase, 
with  china  knobs  on  the  principal  bannisters  of  the 
rail,  and  crimson-tasselled  bell  cords  at  all  the  doors 
of  the  flats.  Musa  lived  at  the  summit  of  it.  Audrey 
arrived  there  short  of  breath,  took  the  crimson-tasselled 
cord  in  her  hand  to  pull,  and  then  hesitated  in  order  to 
think. 

Why  had  she  come?  The  response  was  clear.  She 
had  come  solely  because  she  hated  to  see  a  job  botched, 
and  there  was  not  a  moment  to  lose  if  it  was  not  to  be 
botched.  She  had  come,  not  because  she  had  the  slight- 
est sympathetic  interest  in  Musa — on  the  contrary, 
she  was  coldly  angry  with  him — but  because  she  had  a 
horror  of  fiascoes.  She  had  found  a  genius  who  needed 
financing,  and  she,  possessing  some  tons  of  money,  had 
financed  him,  and  she  did  not  mean  to  see  an  ounce  of 
her  money  wasted  if  she  could  help  it.     Her  interest  in 


GENIUS  AT  BAY  367 

the  affair  was  artistic  and  impersonal,  and  none  other. 
It  was  the  duty  of  wealthy  magnates  to  foster  art,  and 
she  was  fostering  art,  and  she  would  have  the  thing 
done  neatly  and  completely,  or  she  would  know  the 
reason.  Fancy  a  rational  creature  making  a  scene  at 
a  final  rehearsal  and  swearing  that  he  would  not  play, 
and  then  bolting!  It  was  monstrous !  People  really  did 
not  do  such  things.  Assuredly  no  artist  had  ever  done 
such  a  thing  before.  Artists  who  had  a  concert  all  to 
themselves  invariably  appeared  according  to  advertised 
promise.  An  artist  who  was  only  one  among  several 
in  a  programme  might  fall  ill  and  fail  to  appear,  for 
such  artists  are  liable  to  the  accidents  of  earthly  ex- 
istence. But  an  artist  who  shared  the  programme  with 
nobody  else  was  above  the  accidents  of  earthly  exist- 
ence and  magically  protected  against  colds,  coughs, 
influenza,  orange  peel,  automobiles,  and  all  the  other 
enemies  of  mankind.  But  of  course  Musa  was  peculiar, 
erratic,  and  unpredictable  beyond  even  the  wide  range 
granted  by  society  to  genius.  And  yet  of  late  he  had 
been  behaving  himself  in  a  marvellous  manner.  He  had 
never  bothered  her.  On  the  vo^^age  back  to  France  he 
had  not  bothered  her.  They  had  separated  with  punc- 
tilious cordiality.  Neither  of  them  had  written  to  the 
other,  but  she  knew  that  he  was  working  diligently  and 
satisfactorily.  He  was  apparently  cured  of  her.  It 
was  perhaps  due  to  the  seeming  completeness  of  his 
cure  that  her  relations  with  Mr.  Oilman  had  been  what 
they  were.   .   .   .  And  now,  suddenly,  this ! 

So  with  clear  conscience  she  pulled  the  bell-cord. 

Musa  himself  opened  the  door.  He  was  coatless  and 
in  a  dressing-gown,  under  which  showed  glimpses  of  a 
new  smartness.  As  soon  as  he  saw  her  he  went  very 
pale. 

"Bon  jour,"  she  said. 


368  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

He  repeated  the  phrase  stiffly. 

"Can  I  come  In?"  she  asked. 

He  silently  signified,  with  a  certain  annoying  resig- 
nation, that  she  might.  For  one  instant  she  was  under 
a  tremendous  impulse  to  walk  grandly  and  haughtily 
down  the  stairs.  But  she  conquered  the  impulse.  He 
was  so  pale. 

"This  way,  excuse  me,"  he  said,  and  preceded  her 
along  a  short,  narrow  passage  which  ended  in  an  open 
door  leading  into  a  small  room.  There  was  no  carpet 
on  the  floor  of  the  passage,  and  only  a  quite  inade- 
quate rug  on  the  floor  of  the  room.  The  furniture  was 
scanty  and  poor.  There  were  a  table,  a  music-stand,  a 
cheap  imitation  of  a  Louis  Quatorze  chair,  two  other 
chairs,  and  some  piles  of  music.  No  curtains  to  the 
window !  Not  a  picture  on  the  walls !  On  the  table  a 
dusty  disorder  of  small  objects,  including  ash-trays, 
and  towards  the  back  of  it  a  little  account-book,  open, 
with  a  pencil  on  it  and  a  low  pile  of  coppers  and  a  sil- 
ver ten-sou  piece  on  the  top  of  the  coppers.  Neverthe- 
less this  interior  represented  a  novel  luxuriousness  for 
Musa ;  for  previously,  as  Audrey  knew,  he  had  lived  in 
one  room,  and  there  was  no  bed  here.  The  flat,  indeed, 
actually  comprised  three  rooms.  The  account-book 
and  the  pitiful  heap  of  coins  touched  her.  She  had  ex- 
pended much  on  the  enterprise  of  launching  him  to 
glory,  and  those  coins  seemed  to  be  all  that  had  filtered 
through  to  him.  The  whole  dwelling  was  pathetic, 
and  she  thought  of  the  splendours  of  her  own  daily  life, 
of  the  absolute  unimportance  to  her  of  such  sums  as 
would  keep  Musa  in  content  for  a  year  or  for  ten 
years,  and  of  the  grandiose,  majestic,  dazzling  career 
of  herself  and  Mr.  Gilman  when  their  respective  for- 
tunes should  be  joined  together.  And  she  mysteriously 
saw  Mr.  Oilman's  face  again,  and  that  too  was  pathetic. 


GENIUS  AT  BAY  369 

Everything  was  pathetic.  She  alone  seemed  to  be  hard, 
dominating,  overbearing.  Her  conscience  waked  to 
fresh  activity.  Was  she  losing  her  soul?  Where  were 
her  Ideals.'^  Could  she  really  work  in  full  honesty  for 
the  feminist  cause  as  the  wife  of  a  man  like  Mr.  Gil- 
man.''  He  was  adorable:  she  felt  in  that  moment  that 
she  had  a  genuine  affection  for  him;  but  could  Mrs. 
Gilman  challenge  the  police,  retort  audaciously  upon 
magistrates,  and  lie  in  prison?  In  a  word,  could  she 
be  a  martyr?  Would  Mr.  Gilman,  with  all  his  amenabil- 
ity, consent?  Would  she  herself  consent?  Would  it 
not  be  ridiculous  ?  Thus  her  flying,  shamed  thoughts  in 
front  of  the  waiting  Musa ! 

"Then  you  aren't  ill?"  she  began. 

"Ill !"  he  exclaimed.  "Why  do  you  wish  that  I  should 
be  ill?" 

As  he  answered  her  he  removed  his  open  fiddle-case, 
with  the  violin  inside  it,  from  the  Louis  Quatorze  chair, 
and  signed  to  her  to  sit  down.     She  sat  down. 

"I  heard  that — this  morning — at  the  rehearsal " 

"Ah!     You  have  heard  that?" 

"And  I  thought  perhaps  you  were  ill.  So  I  came 
to  see." 

"What  have  you  heard?" 

"Frankly,  Musa,  it  is  said  that  you  said  you  would 
not  play   to-night." 

"Does  it  concern  you?" 

"It  concerns  every  one.  .  .  .  And  you  have  been  so 
good  lately." 

"Ah !  I  have  been  good  lately.  You  have  heard  that. 
And  did  you  expect  me  to  continue  to  be  good  when  you 
returned  to  Paris  and  passed  all  your  days  in  public 
with  that  antique  and  grotesque  Monsieur  Gilman?  All 
the  world  sees  you.  I  myself  have  seen  you.  It  is 
horrible." 


S70  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

She  controlled  herself.  And  the  fact  that  she  was 
intensely  flattered  helped  her  to  do  so. 

"Now,  Musa,"  she  said,  firmly  and  kindly,  as  on  pre- 
vious occasions  she  had  spoken  to  him.  "Do  be  rea- 
sonable. I  refuse  to  be  angry,  and  it  is  impossible  for 
you  to  insult  me,  however  much  you  try.  But  do  be 
reasonable.  Do  think  of  the  future.  We  are  all  wish- 
ing for  your  success.  We  shall  all  be  there.  And  now 
you  say  you  aren't  going  to  play.  It  is  really  too 
much." 

"You  have  perhaps  bought  tickets,"  said  Musa,  and 
a  flush  gradually  spread  over  his  cheeks.  "You  have 
perhaps  bought  tickets,  and  you  are  afraid  lest  you 
have  been  robbed.  Tranquillise  yourself,  madame.  If 
you  have  the  least  fear,  I  will  instruct  my  agent  to  re- 
imburse you.  And  why  should  I  not  'pla.j?  Naturally 
I  shall  play.  Accept  my  word,  if  you  can."  He  spoke 
with  an  icy  and  convincing  decision. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad !"  Audrey  murmured. 

"What  right  have  you  to  be  glad,  madame?  If  you 
are  glad  it  is  your  own  affair.  Have  I  -troubled  you 
since  we  last  met?  I  need  the  sympathy  of  nobody. 
I  am  assured  of  a  large  audience.  My  impresario  is 
excessively  optimistic.  And  if  this  is  so,  I  owe  it  to 
none  but  myself.  You  speak  of  insults.  Permit  me 
to  say  that  I  regard  your  patronage  as  an  insult.  I 
have  done  nothing,  I  imagine,  to  deserve  it.  I  crack 
my  head  to  divine  what  I  have  done  to  deserve  it.  You 
hear  some  silly  talk  about  a  rehearsal  and  yqu  precipi- 
tate yourself  chez  moi " 

Without  a  word  Audrey  rose  and  departed.  He  fol- 
lowed her  to  the  door  and  held  it  open. 

''''Bon  jour,  madame." 

She  descended  the  stairs.  Perhaps  it  was  his  sudden 
illogical  change  of  tone ;  perhaps  it  was  the  memory  of 


GENIUS  AT  BAY  371 

his  phrase,  "assured  of  a  large  audience,"  coupled  with 
a  picture  of  the  sinister  Mr.  Cowl  unsuccessfully  tr^'ing 
to  give  away  tickets, — but  whatever  was  the  origin  of 
the  sob,  she  did  give  a  sob.  As  she  walked  downcast 
through  the  courtyard  she  heard  clearly  the  sounds 
of  Musa's  violin,  played  with  savage  vigour. 


CHAPTER  XLI 


FINANCIAL  NEWS 


The  Salle  Xavier,  or  Xavier  Hall,  had  been  built, 
with  other  people's  money,  by  Xayier  in  order  to  force 
the  general  public  to  do  something  which  the  general 
public  does  not  want  to  do  and  neyer  would  do  of  its 
own  accord.  Namely,  to  listen  to  high-class  music.  It 
had  not  been  built,  and  it  was  not  run,  strange  to  say, 
to  adyertise  a  certain  brand  of  piano.  Xayier  was  an 
old  Jew,  of  surpassing  ughness,  from  Cracow  or  some 
such  place.  He  looked  a  rascal,  and  he  was  one — 
admittedly;  he  himself  would  imply  it,  if  not  crudely 
admit  it.  He  had  no  personal  interest  in  music,  either 
high-class  or  low-class.  But  he  possessed  a  gift  for 
languages  and  he  had  mixed  a  great  deal  with  musicians 
in  an  informal  manner.  Wagner,  at  Venice,  had  once 
threatened  Xayier  with  a  stick,  and  also  Xayier  had 
twice  run  away  with  great  exponents  of  the  role  of 
Isolde.  His  competence  as  a  connoisseur  of  Wkgner's 
music,  and  of  the  proper  methods  of  rendering  Wag- 
ner's music,  could  therefore  not  be  questioned,  and  it 
was  not  questioned. 

He  had  a  habit  of  initiating  grandiose  schemes  for 
opera  or  concerts  and  of  obtaining  money  therefor  from 
wealthy  amateurs.  After  a  few  months  he  would  re- 
turn the  money  less  ten  per  cent  for  preliminary  ex- 
penses and  plus  his  regrets  that  the  schemes  had  un- 
happily fallen  through  owing  to  unforeseen  difficulties. 
And  wealthy  amateurs  were  so  astonished  to  get  ninety 

372 


FIXAXCLIL  NEWS  373 

per  cent  of  their  money  back  from  a  rascal  that  they 
thought  him  almost  an  honest  man,  asked  him  to  din- 
ner, and  listened  sympathetically  to  details  of  his  next 
grandiose  scheme.  The  Xavier  Hall  "svas  one  of  the 
few  schemes — and  the  only  real  estate  scheme — that 
had  ever  gone  through.  With  the  hall  for  a  centre, 
Xavier  laid  daily  his  plans  and  conspiracies  for  per- 
suading the  public  against  its  will.  To  this  end  he  em- 
ployed in  large  numbers  clerks,  printers,  bill-posters, 
ticket-agents,  doorkeepers,  programme-writers,  pro- 
gramme-sellers, charwomen,  and  even  artists.  He  al- 
ways had  some  new  dodge  or  hope.  The  hall  was  let 
several  times  a  week  for  concerts  or  other  entertaii^- 
ments,  and  many  of  them  were  private  speculations  of 
Xavier.  Thev  were  nearly  all  failures.  And  the  Hall, 
thoroughly  accustomed  to  seeing  itself  half  empty,  did 
not  pay  interest  on  its  capital.  How  could  it.''  Upon 
occasions  there  had  actually  been  more  persons  in  the 
orchestra  than  in  the  audience.  Seated  in  the  foyer, 
with  one  eye  upon  a  shabby  programme  girl  and  an- 
other upon  the  street  outside,  Xavier  would  sometimes 
refer  to  these  facts  in  conversation  with  a  titled  patron, 
and  would  describe  the  public  realistically  and  without 
pretence  of  illusion.  Nevertheless,  Xavier  had  grown 
to  be  a  rich  man,  for  percentages  were  his  hourly  food; 
he  received  them  even  from  programme-sellers. 

At  9  o'clock  the  hall  was  rather  less  than  half-full, 
and  this  was  rightly  regarded  as  very  promising,  for 
the  management,  like  the  management  of  every  place 
of  distraction  in  Paris,  held  it  a  point  of  honour  to 
start  from  twenty  to  thirty  minutes  late, — as  though  all 
Parisians  had  many  ages  ago  decided  that  in  Paris 
one  could  not  be  punctual,  and  that,  long  since  tired 
of  waiting  for  each  other,  they  had  entered  into  a  com- 
petition to  make  each  other  wait,  the  individual  who 


374  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

arrived  last  being  universally  regarded  as  the  winner. 
The  members  of  the  orchestra  were  filing  negligently 
in  from  the  back  of  the  vast  terraced  platform,  yawn- 
ing, and  ravaged  by  the  fearful  ennui  of  eternal  high- 
class  music.  They  entered  in  dozens  and  scores,  and 
they  kept  on  entering,  and  as  they  gazed  inimically  at 
each 'other,  fingering  their  instruments,  their  pale  faces 
seemed  to  be  asking:  "Why  should  it  be  necessary  to 
collect  so  many  of  us  in  order  to  prove  that  just  one 
single  human  being  can  play  the  violin?  We  can  all 
play  the  violin,  or  something  else  just  as  good.  And 
we  have  all  been  geniuses  in  our  time." 

In  strong  contrast  to  their  fatigued  and  disastrous 
indifference  was  the  demeanour  of  a  considerable  group 
of  demonstrators  in  the  gallery.  This  body  had  crossed 
the  Seine  from  the  sacred  Quarter,  and,  not  owning 
a  wardrobe  sufficiently  impressive  to  entitle  it  to  ask 
for  free  seats,  it  had  paid  for  its  seats.  Hence  natur- 
ally its  seats  were  the  worst  in  the  Hall.  But  the  group 
did  not  care.  It  was  capable  of  exciting  itself  about 
high-class  music.  Moreover  it  had,  for  that  night,  an 
article  of  religious  faith,  to  wit,  that  Musa  was  the 
greatest  violinist  that  had  ever  lived  or  ever  could  live, 
and  it  was  determined  to  prove  this  article  of  faith 
by  sheer  force  of  hands  and  feet.  Therefore  it  was 
very  happy,  and  just  a  little  noisy. 

In  the  main  part  of  the  hall  the  audience  could  be 
divided  into  two  species,  one  less  numerous  than  the 
other.  First,  the  devotees  of  music,  who  went  to  nearly 
every  concert,  extremel}^  knowing,  extremely  blase,  ex- 
tremely disdainful  and  fastidious,  with  precise  views 
about  every  musical  composition,  every  conductor  and 
every  performer ;  weary  of  melodious  nights  at  which 
the  same  melodies  were  ever  heard,  but  addicted  to  them, 
as  some  people  are  addicted  to  vices  equally  deleterious. 


FINANCIAL  NEWS  375 

These  devotees  would  have  had  trouble  with  their  con- 
science or  their  instincts  had  they  not,  by  coming  to 
the  concert,  put  themselves  in  a  position  to  affirm  ex- 
actl}'^  and  positively  what  manner  of  a  performer  Musa 
was.  They  had  no  hope  of  being  pleased  by  him.  In- 
deed they  knew  beforehand  that  he  was  yet  another 
false  star,  but  they  had  to  ascertain  the  truth  for 
themselves,  because — you  see — there  was  a  slight  chance 
that  he  might  be  a  genuine  star,  in  which  case  their 
careers  would  have  been  ruined  had  they  not  been  able 
to  say  to  succeeding  generations :  "I  was  at  his  first 
concert.  It  was  a  memorable,"  etc.,  etc.  They  were 
an  emaciated  tribe,  and  in  fact  had  the  air  of  mummies 
temporarily  revived  and  escaped  out  of  museums.  They 
were  shabby,  but  not  with  the  gallery  shabbiness ;  they 
were  shabby  because  shabbiness  was  part  of  their  un- 
worldly refinement ;  and  it  did  not  matter — they  would 
have  got  their  free  seats  even  if  they  had  come  in  sacks 
and  cerements. 

The  second  main  division  of  the  audience — and  the 
larger — consisted  of  the  jolly  pleasure-seekers,  who 
had  dined  well,  who  respected  Beethoven  no  more  than 
Oscar  Strauss,  and  who  demanded  only  one  boon — not 
to  be  bored.  They  had  full  dimpled  cheeks,  and  they 
were  adequately  attired,  and  they  dropped  cigarettes 
with  reluctance  in  the  foyer,  and  they  entered  adven- 
turously with  marked  courage,  well  aware  that  they 
had  come  to  something  queer  and  dangerous,  something 
that  was  neither  a  revue  nor  a  musical  comedy,  and, 
while  hoping  optimistically  for  the  best,  determined  to 
march  boldly  out  again  in  the  event  of  the  worst.  They 
had  seven  mortal  evenings  a  week  to  dispose  of  some- 
how, and  occasionally  they  were  obliged  to  take  risks. 
Their   expressions    for   the   most   part  had   that   con- 


376  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

descension  which  is  characteristic  of  those  who  take  a 
risk  without  being  paid  for  it. 

All  around  the  hall  ran  a  horse-shoe  of  private  boxes, 
between  the  balcony  and  the  gallery.  These  boxes 
gradually  filled.  At  a  quarter  past  nine  over  half  of 
them  were  occupied;  which  fact,  combined  with  the 
stylishness  of  the  hats  in  them,  proved  that  Xavier 
had  immense  skill  in  certain  directions,  and  that  on 
that  night,  for  some  reason  or  other,  he  had  been  doing 
his  very  best. 

At  twenty  minutes  past  nine  the  audience  had  coal- 
esced and  become  an  entity,  and  the  group  from  the 
Quarter  was  stamping  an  imitation  of  the  first  bars  of 
the  C  minor  symphony,  to  indicate  that  further  delay 
might  involve  complications. 

Audrey  sat  with  Miss  Ingate  modestly  and  incon- 
spicuously in  the  fifth  row  of  the  stalls.  Miss  Ingate, 
prodigious  in  crimson,  was  in  a  state  of  beatitude,  be- 
cause she  never  went  to  concerts  and  imagined  that  she 
had  inadvertently  slipped  into  heaven.  The  mere  size 
of  the  orchestra  so  overwhelmed  her  that  she  was  con- 
vinced that  it  was  an  orchestra  specially  enlarged  to 
meet  the  unique  importance  of  Musa's  genius.  "They 
must  think  highly  of  him !"  she  said.  She  employed 
the  time  in  looking  about  her.  She  had  already  found, 
besides  many  other  Anglo-Saxon  acquaintances,  Rosa- 
mund, in  black.  Tommy  with  Nick,  and  Mr.  Cowl,  who 
was  one  seat  to  Audrey's  left  in  the  sixth  row  of  the 
stalls.  Also  Mr.  Gilman  and  Madame  Piriac  and  Mon- 
sieur Piriac  in  a  double  box.  Audrey  and  herself  ought 
to  have  been  in  that  box,  and  had  the  afternoon  de- 
veloped otherwise  they  probably  would  have  been  in 
that  box.  Fortunately  at  the  luncheon,  Audrey,  who 
had  bought  various  lots  of  seats,  had  with  the  strange 
cautiousness  of  a  young  girl  left  herself  free  to  utilise 


FINANCIAL  NEWS  377 

or  not  to  utilise  the  offered  hospitality  of  Mr.  Gil- 
man's  double  box,  and  Mr.  Gilman  had  not  pressed  her 
for  a  decision.  Was  it  not  important  that  the  hall 
should  seem  as  full  as  possible?  When  Miss  Ingate, 
pushing  her  investigations  further,  had  discovered  not 
merely  Monsieur  Dauphin,  but  INIr.  Ziegler,  late  of 
Frinton  and  now  resident  in  Paris,  her  cup  was  full. 

"It's  vehy  wonderful,  vehy  wonderful !"  said  she. 

But  it  was  Audrey  who  most  deeply  had  the  sense 
of  the  wonderfulness  of  the  thing.  For  it  was  Audrey 
who  had  created  it.  Having  months  ago  comprehended 
that  a  formal  and  splendid  debut  was  necessary  for 
Musa  if  he  was  to  succeed  within  a  reasonable  space  of 
time,  she  had  willed  the  debut  within  her  own  brain. 
She  alone  had  thought  of  it.  And  now  the  realisation 
seemed  to  her  to  be  absolutely  a  miracle.  Had  she  read 
of  such  an  affair  a  year  earlier  in  a  newspaper — with 
the  words  "Paris,"  "tout  Paris,'^  "young  genius,"  and 
so  on — she  would  have  pictured  it  as  gloriously,  thrill- 
ingly  romantic,  and  it  indeed  was  gloriously  and  thrill- 
ingly  romantic.  She  thought :  "None  of  these  people 
sitting  around  me  know  that  I  have  brought  it  about, 
and  that  it  is  all  mine."  The  thought  was  sweet.  She 
felt  like  an  invisible  African  genie  out  of  the  Thousand 
and  One  Nights. 

And  yet  what  had  she  done  to  bring  it  about  .f^  Noth- 
ing, simply  nothing,  except  to  command  it!  She  had 
not  even  signed  cheques.  Mr.  Foulger  had  signed  the 
cheques !  Mr.  Foulger,  who  set  down  the  whole  enter- 
prise as  incomprehensible  lunacy!  Mr.  Foulger,  who 
had  never  been  to  aught  but  a  smoking-concert  in  his 
life,  and  who  could  not  pronounce  the  name  of  Beetho- 
ven without  hesitations !  The  great  deed  had  cost 
money,  and  it  would  cost  more  money;  it  would  prob- 
ably cost  four  hundred  pounds  ere  it  was  finished  with. 


378  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

An  extravagant  sum,  but  Xavler  had  motor-cars  and 
toys  even  more  expensive  than  motor-cars  to  keep  up ! 
Audrey,  however,  considered  it  a  small  sura,  compared 
to  the  terrific  spectacular  eifect  obtained.  And  she  was 
right.  The  attributes  of  money  seemed  entirely  mag- 
ical to  her.  And  she  was  right  again.  She  respected 
money  with  a  new  respect.  And  she  respected  herself 
for  using  money  with  such  large  grandeur. 

And  witlial  she  was  most  horribly  nervous,  just  as 
nervous  as  though  it  was  she  who  was  doomed  to  face 
the  indifferent  and  exacting  audience  with  nothing  but 
a  violin  bow  for  weapon.     She  was  so  nervous  that  she 
could  not  listen,  could  not  even  follow  Miss  Ingate's 
simple  remarks ;  she  heard  them  as  from  a  long  dis- 
tance, and  grasped  them  after  a  long  interval.     Still, 
she  was  uplifted,  doughty,  and  proud.    The  humiliation 
of  the  afternoon  had  vanished  like  a  mist.     Nay,  she 
felt  glad  that  Musa  had  behaved  to  her  just  as  he  did 
behave.      His   mien   pleased  her;  his  wounding  words, 
each  of  which  she  clearly  remembered,  were  a  source 
of  delight.     She  had  never  admired  him  so  much.     She 
had  now  no  resentment  against  him.      He  had  proved 
that  her  hoj)es  of  him  were  after  all  well  justified.     He 
would  succeed.     Only  some  silly  and  improbable  acci- 
dent could  stop  him   from   succeeding.      She  was   not 
nervous  about  his  success.     She  was  nervous  for  him. 
She  became  him.      She  tuned  his  fiddle,  gathered  her- 
self together  and  walked  on  to  the  platform,  bowed  to 
the  dim  multitudinous  heads  in  front  of  him,  looked  at 
the  conductor,  waited  for  the  opening  bars,  drew  his 
bow  across  his  strings  at  precisely  the  correct  second, 
and   heard   the   resulting  sound   under   her   ear.      And 
all  that  before  the  conductor  had  appeared !    Such  were 
the  manifestations   of  her  purely   personal  desire   for 
the  achievement  of  a  neat,  clean  job. 


FINANCIAL  NEWS  379 

"See!"  said  ^liss  Ingate.  "]\ir.  Gilman  Is  bowing  to 
us.  He  does  look  splendid,  and  isn't  Madame  Piriac 
lovely?  I  must  say  I  don't  care  so  much  for  these 
French  husbands." 

Audre}'  had  to  turn  and  join  Miss  Ingate  in  acknowl- 
edging the  elaborate  bow.  At  any  rate,  then,  Mr.  Gil- 
man  had  not  been  utterly  estranged  by  her  capricious 
abandonment  of  him.  And  wh}'  should  he  be.'^  He  was 
a  man  of  sense ;  he  would  understand  perfectly  when  she 
explained  to-morrow.  Further,  he  was  her  slave.  She 
was  sure  of  him.  She  would  apologise  to  him.  She 
would  richly  recompense  him  by  smiles  and  honey  and 
charming  persuasive  simplicity.  And  he  would  see  that 
with  all  her  innocent  and  modest  ingenuousness  she  was 
capable  of  acting  seriously  and  effectively  in  a  sudden 
crisis.  She  would  rise  higher  in  his  esteem.  As  for 
the  foreseen  proposal,  well 

A  sporadic  clapping  wakened  her  out  of  those  reflec- 
tions. The  conductor  was  approaching  his  desk.  The 
orchestra  applauded  him.  He  tapped  the  desk  and 
raised  his  stick.  And  there  was  a  loud  noise,  the  thump- 
ing of  her  heart.  The  concert  had  begun.  IMusa  was 
still  invisible — what  was  he  doing  at  that  instant,  some- 
where behind? — but  the  concert  had  begun.  Stars  do 
not  take  part  in  the  first  item  of  an  orchestral  concert. 
There  is  a  convention  that  they  shall  be  preluded ;  and 
]Musa  was  preluded  by  the  overture  to  "Die  Meister- 
singer."  In  the  soft  second  section  of  the  overture,  a 
most  noticeable  babble  came  from  a  stage-box.  "Oh ! 
It's  the  Foas,"  muttered  Miss  Ingate.  "What  a  lot  of 
people  are  fussing  around  them !"  "Hsh !"  frowned 
Audrey,  outraged  by  the  interruption.  ]Madame  Foa 
took  about  fifty  bars  in  which  to  settle  herself,  and 
^Monsieur  Foa  chattered  to  people  behind  him  as  freely 
as  if  he  had  been  in  a  cafe.    Nobodv  seemed  to  mind. 


380  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

The  overture  was  applauded,  but  Madame  Foa,  in- 
stead of  applauding,  leaned  gracefully  back,  smiling, 
and  waved  somebody  to  the  seat  beside  her. 

Violent  demonstrations  from  the  gallery !  .  .  .  He 
was  there,  tripping  down  the  stepped  pathway  between 
the  drums.  The  demonstrations  grew  general.  The 
orchestra  applauded  after  its  own  fashion.  He  reached 
the  conductor,  smiled  at  the  conductor  and  bowed  very 
admirably.  He  seemed  to  be  absolutely  at  his  ease. 
Then  there  was  a  delay.  The  conductor's  scores  had 
got  themselves  mixed  up.  It  was  dreadful.  It  was 
enough  to  make  a  woman  shriek. 

"I  say !"  said  a  voice  in  Audrey's  ear.  She  turned  as 
if  shot.  Mr.  Cowl's  round  face  was  close  to  hers.  "I 
suppose  you  saw  The  New  York  Herald  this  morning." 

"No,"  answered  Audrey  impatiently. 

The  orchestra  started  the  Beethoven  violin  concerto. 
But  Mr.  Cowl  kept  his  course. 

"Didn't  you.?"  he  said.  "About  the  Zacatecas  Oil 
Corporation.?  It's  under  a  receivership.  It's  gone 
smash.  I've  had  an  idea  for  some  time  it  would.  All 
due  to  these  Mexican  revolutions.  I  thought  you  might 
like  to  know." 

Musa's  bow  hung  firmly  over  the  strings. 


CHAPTER  XLII 


INTERVAL 


The  most  sinister  feature  of  entertainments  oi> 
ganised  by  Xavier  was  the  intervals.  Xavier  laid 
stress  on  intervals ;  they  gave  repose,  and  in  many  cases 
they  saved  money.  All  Paris  managers  are  inclined  to 
give  to  the  interval  the  importance  of  a  star-turn,  and 
Xavier  in  this  respect  surpassed  his  rivals,  though  he 
perhaps  regarded  his  cloak-rooms,  which  were  organ- 
ised to  cause  the  largest  possible  amount  of  incon- 
venience to  the  largest  possible  number  of  people,  as 
his  surest  financial  buttress.  Xavier  could  or  would 
never  see  the  close  resemblance  of  intervals  to  wet 
blankets,  extinguishers,  palls,  and  hostile  critics.  The 
Allegro  movement  of  the  Concerto  was  a  real  success, 
and  the  audience  as  a  whole  would  have  applauded  even 
more  if  the  gallery  in  particular  had  not  applauded  so 
much.  The  second  or  Larghetto  movement  was  also  a 
success,  but  to  a  less  degree.  As  for  the  third  and  last 
movement,  it  put  the  gallery  into  an  ecstasy  while  leav- 
ing the  floor  in  possession  of  full  critical  faculties. 
Musa  retired  and  had  to  return,  and  when  he  returned 
the  floor  good-humouredly  joined  the  vociferous  gallery 
in  laudations,  and  he  had  to  return  again.  Then  the 
interminable  interval !  Silence !  Murmurings !  Silence ! 
Creepings  towards  exits !  And  in  many,  very  many 
hearts  the  secret  trouble  question:  "Why  are  we  here? 
What  have  we  come  for.^*  What  is  all  this  pother  about 
art  and  genius?     Honestly,  shall  we  not  be  glad  and 

381 


S82  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

relieved  when  the  solemn  old  thing  is  over?"  .  .  .  And 
the  desolating,  cynical  indifference  of  the  conductor  and 
the  orchestra !  Often  there  is  a  clearer  vision  of  the 
truth  during  the  intervals  of  a  classical  concert  than 
on  a  deathbed. 

Audrey  was  extremely  depressed  in  the  interval  after 
the  Beethoven  concerto  and  before  the  Lalo.  But  she 
was  not  depressed  by  the  news  of  the  accident  to  the 
Zacatecas  Oil  Corporation  in  which  was  the  major  part 
of  her  wealth.  The  tidings  had  stunned  rather  than 
injured  that  part  of  her  which  was  capable  of  being 
affected  by  finance.  She  had  not  felt  the  blow.  More- 
over she  was  protected  by  the  knowledge  that  she  had 
thousands  of  pounds  in  hand  and  also  the  Moze  prop- 
erty intact,  and  further  she  was  already  reconsidering 
her  newly  acquired  respect  for  money.  No !  What  de- 
pressed her  was  a  doubt  as  to  the  genius  of  Musa.  In 
the  long  dreadful  pause  it  seemed  impossible  that  he 
should  have  genius.  The  entire  concert  presented  itself 
as  a  grotesque  farce,  of  which  she  as  its  creator  ought 
to  be  ashamed.  She  was  ready  to  kill  Xavier  or  his 
responsible  representative. 

Then  she  saw  the  tall  and  calm  Rosamund,  with  her 
grey  hair  and  black  attire  and  her  subduing  self-com- 
placency, making  a  way  between  the  rows  of  stalls  to- 
wards her. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,"  said  Rosamund,  after  the 
formal  greetings.  "Very  much."  Her  voice  was  as 
kind  and  as  unrelenting  as  the  grave. 

At  this  point  Miss  Ingate  ought  to  have  yielded  her 
seat  to  the  terrific  Rosamund,  but  she  failed  to  do  so, 
doubtless  by  inadvertence. 

"Will  3^ou  come  into  the  foyer  for  a  moment.?"  Rosa- 
mund inflexibly  suggested. 

"Isn't  the  interval  nearly  over?"  said  Audrey. 


INTERVAL  383 


"Oh,  no !" 


And  as  a  fact  there  was  not  the  slightest  sign  of  the 
interval  being  nearly  over.  Audrey  obediently  rose. 
But  the  invitation  had  been  so  conspicuously  addressed 
to  herself  that  Miss  Ingate,  gathering  her  wits,  re- 
mained in  her  chair. 

The  foyer — decorated  in  the  Cracovian  taste — was 
dotted  with  cigarette  smokers  and  with  those  who  had 
fled  from  the  interval.  Rosamund  did  not  sit  down ; 
she  did  not  try  for  seclusion  in  a  corner.  She  stepped 
well  into  the  foyer,  and  then  stood  still,  and  absently 
lighted  a  cigarette,  omitting  to  offer  a  cigarette  to 
Audrey.  Rosamund's  air  of  a  deaconess  made  the  cig- 
arette extremely  remarkable. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  about  Jane  Foley,"  began 
Rosamund  quietly.     "Have  you  heard.'"' 

"No!     What.?' 

"Of  course  you  haven't.  I  alone  knew.  She  has  run 
away  to  England." 

"Run  away !    But  she'll  be  caught !" 

"She  may  be.  But  that  is  not  all.  She  has  run  away 
to  get  married.  She  dared  not  tell  me.  She  wrote  me. 
She  put  the  letter  in  the  manuscript  of  the  last  chapter 
but  one  of  her  book,  which  I  am  revising  for  her.  She 
will  almost  certainly  be  caught  if  she  tries  to  get  mar- 
ried in  her  own  name.  Therefore  she  will  get  married 
in  a  false  name.  All  this,  however,  is  not  what  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  about." 

"Then  you  shouldn't  have  begun  to  talk  about  it," 
said  Audrey  suddenly.  "Did  you  expect  me  to  let  you 
leave  it  in  the  middle !  Jane  getting  married !  I  do 
think  she  might  have  told  me.  .  .  .  What  next,  I  won- 
der !     I  suppose  you've — er — lost  her  now." 

"Not  entirely,  I  believe,"  said  Rosamund.  "Cer- 
tainly not  entirely.     But  of  course  I  could  never  trust 


384  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

her  again.  This  is  the  worst  blow  I  have  ever  had. 
She  says — but  why  go  into  that? — Well,  she  docs  say 
she  will  work  as  hard  as  ever,  nearly ;  and  that  her  fu- 
ture husband  strongly  supports  us — and  so  on."  Rosa- 
mund smiled  with  complete  detachment. 

"And  who's  he?"  Audrey  demanded. 

"His  name  is  Aguilar,"   said  Rosamund.     "So  she 


says." 


"Aguilar?" 

"Yes.  I  gather — I  say  I  gather — that  he  belongs 
to  the  industrial  class.  But  of  course  that  is  precisely 
the  class  that  Jane  springs  from.  Odd!  Is  it  not? 
Heredity,  I  presume."     She  raised  her  shoulders. 

Audrey  said  nothing.  She  was  too  shocked  to  speak, 
— not  pained  or  outraged,  but  simply  shaken.  What 
in  the  name  of  Juno  could  Jane  see  in  Aguilar?  Jane, 
to  whom  every  man  was  the  hereditary  enemy !  Agui- 
lar, who  had  no  use  for  either  man  or  woman !  Aguilar, 
a  man  without  a  Christian  name,  one  of  those  men  in 
connection  with  whom  a  Christian  name  is  impossibly 
ridiculous.  How  should  she,  Audrey,  address  Aguilar 
in  future?  Would  he  have  to  be  asked  to  tea?  These 
vital  questions  naturally  transcended  all  others  in 
Audrey's  mind.  .  .  .  Still  (she  veered  round),  it  was 
perhaps  after  all  just  the  union  that  might  have  been 
expected. 

"And  now,"  said  Rosamund  at  length,  "I  have  a  ques- 
tion to  put  to  you." 

"Well?" 

"I  don't  want  a  definite  answer  here  and  now."  She 
looked  round  disdainfully  at  the  foyer.  "But  I  do  want 
to  set  your  mind  on  the  right  track  at  the  earliest  pos- 
sible moment — before  any  accidents  occur."  She 
smiled  satirically.     "You  see  how  frank  I  am  with  you. 


INTERVAL  385 

I'll  be  more  frank  still,  and  tell  you  that  I  came  to 
tills  concert  to-night  specially  to  see  you." 

"Did  3"ou?"  Audrey  murmured.     "Well?'* 

The  older  woman  looked  down  upon  her  from  a 
superior  height.  Her  eyes  were  those  of  an  autocrat. 
It  was  quite  possible  to  see  in  them  the  born  leader 
who  had  dominated  thousands  of  women  and  played 
a  dra^vn  game  with  the  British  Government  itself.  But 
Audrey,  at  the  very  moment  when  she  was  feeling  the 
overbearing  magic  of  that  gaze,  happened  to  remem- 
ber the  scene  in  Madame  Piriac's  automobile  on  the 
night  of  her  first  arrival  in  Paris,  when  she  herself 
was  asleep  and  Rosamund,  not  knowing  that  she  was 
asleep,  had  been  solemnly  addressing  her.  Miss  In- 
gate's  often-repeated  account  of  the  scene  always  made 
her  laugh,  and  the  memory  of  it  now  caused  her  to 
smile  faintly. 

"I  want  to  suggest  to  you,"  Rosamund  proceeded, 
"that  you  begin  to  work  for  me." 

"For  the  suffrage — or  for  you.'*" 

"It  is  the  same  thing,"  said  Rosamund  coldly.  "I  am 
the  suffrage.  Without  me  the  cause  would  not  have 
existed  to-day." 

"Well,"  said  Audrey,  "of  course  I  will.  I  have  done 
a  bit  alread}',  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Rosamund  admitted.  "You  did  very 
well  at  the  Blue  City.  That's  why  I'm  approaching 
you.     That's  why  I've  chosen  you." 

"Chosen  me  for  what.''" 

"You  know  that  a  new  great  campaign  will  soon  be- 
gin. It  is  all  arranged.  It  will  necessitate  my  return- 
ing to  England  and  challenging  the  police.  You  know 
also  that  Jane  Foley  was  to  have  been  m}^  lieutenant-in- 
chief — for  the  active  part  of  the  operation.     You  will 


386  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

admit  that  I  can  no  longer  count  on  her  completely. 
Will  you  take  her  place?" 

"I'll  help,"  said  Audrey.  "I'll  do  what  I  can.  I 
daresay  I  shan't  have  much  money,  because  one  of  those 
'accidents'  you  mention  has  happened  to  me  already." 

"That  need  not  trouble  you,"  replied  Rosamund,  im- 
perturbable. "I  have  always  been  able  to  get  all  the 
money  that  was  needed." 

"Well,  I'll  help  all  I  can." 

"That's  not  what  I  ask,"  said  Rosamund  inflexibly. 
"Will  you  take  Jane  Foley's  place.?  Will  you  give 
yourself  utterly?" 

Audrey  answered  with  sudden  vehemence: 

"No,  I  won't.  You  didn't  want  a  definite  answer, 
but  there  it  is." 

"But  surely  you  believe  in  the  cause?" 

"Yes." 

"It's  the  greatest  of  all  causes." 

"I'm  rather  inclined  to  think  it  is." 

"Why  not  give  yourself,  then?  You  are  free.  I 
have  given  nn^self,  my  child." 

"Yes,"  said  Audrey,  who  resented  the  appellation  of 
"child."     "But  you  see  it's  your  hobby." 

"My  hobby,  Mrs.  Moncreiff"!'  exclaimed  Rosamund. 

"Certainly,  your  hobby,"  Audrey  persisted. 

"I  have  sacrificed  everything  to  it,"  said  Rosamund. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Audrey.  "I  don't  think  ^^ou've 
sacrificed  anything  to  it.  You  just  enjoy  bossing  other 
people  above  everything,  and  it  gives  you  every  chance 
to  boss.  And  you  enjoy  plots  too,  and  look  at  the 
chances  you  get  for  that !  Mind  you,  I  like  3'ou  for  it. 
I  think  you're  splendid.  Only  /  don't  want  to  be  a 
monomaniac,  and  I  won't  be."  Her  convictions  seemed 
to  have  become  suddenly  clear  and  absolutely  decided. 

"Do  you  mean  to  infer  that  I  am  a  monomaniac.''" 


INTERVAL  SST 

a?kcd  Rosamurid,  raising  her  eyebrows — but  only  a 
little. 

"Well,"  said  Audrey,  "as  you  mentioned  frankness — 
what  else  would  you  call  yourself  but  a  monomaniac? 
You  only  live  for  one  thin^. — don't  tou,  now?'' 

"It  is  the  greatest  thing." 

"I  don't  say  it  isn't,"  Audrey  admitted.  "But  I've 
been  thinking  a  good  deal  about  all  this,  and  at  last  I've 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  one  tiling  isn't  enough  for 
me,  not  nearly  enough.  And  I'm  not  going  to  be  pecu- 
liar at  any  price.  Neither  a  fanatic  nor  n  monomaniac 
nor  anything  like  that.'' 

"You  are  in  love,"  asserted  Rosamund. 

"And  what  if  I  am.'  If  you  ask  me,  I  think  a  girl 
who  isn't  in  love  ought  to  be  somewhat  ashamed  of  her- 
self, or  at  least  sorry  for  herself.  And  I  am  sorry  for 
myself,  because  I  am  not  in  love.  I  wish  I  was.  Why 
shouldn't  I  be?  It  must  be  lonely  to  be  in  love.  If  I 
was  in  love  I  shouldn't  be  only  in  love.  You  tliink  you 
understand  what  girls  are  nowadays,  but  you  don't.  I 
didn't  mvself  until  iust  latelv.  But  I'm  Ix-^inning  to. 
Girls  were  supposed  to  be  only  interested  in  one  thing 
— in  your  time.  Monomaniacs,  that's  what  they  had 
to  be.  You  changed  all  that,  or  vou're  trying  to 
change  it,  but  you  only  mean  women  to  be  monomaniacs 
about  something  else.  It  isn't  good  enough.  I  want 
everything,  and  I'm  croing  to  get  it — or  have  a  good 
try  for  it.  I'll  never  be  a  martyr  if  I  can  help  it.  And 
I  believe  I  can  help  it.  I  believe  I've  got  just  enough 
commonsense  to  save  me  from  being  a  martyr — either 
to  a  husKand  or  a  house  or  family — or  a  cause.  I  want 
to  have  a  husband  and  a  house  and  a  family,  and  a 
cause  too.  That'll  be  iust  about  everything,  won't  it? 
And  if  you  imagine  I  can't  look  after  all  of  them  at 
once,  all  I  can  sav  is  I  don't  agree  with  you.     Because 


388  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

I've  got  an  idea  I  can.  Supposing  I  had  all  these 
things,  I  fancy  I  could  have  a  tifF  with  my  husband  and 
make  it  up,  play  with  my  children,  alter  a  dress,  change 
the  furniture,  tackle  the  servants,  and  go  out  to  a 
meeting  and  perhaps  have  a  difficulty  with  the  police — 
all  in  one  day.  Only  if  I  did  get  into  trouble  with  the 
police  I  should  pay  the  fine — you  see.  The  pohce  aren't 
going  to  have  me  altogether.  Nobody  is.  Nobody,  man 
or  woman,  is  going  to  be  able  to  boast  that  he's  got  me 
altogether.  You  think  you're  independent.  But  you 
aren't.     We  girls  will  show  you  what  independence  is." 

"You're  a  rather  surprising  young  creature,"  ob- 
served Rosamund  with  a  casual  air,  unmoved.  "You're 
quite  excited." 

"Yes.  I  surprise  myself.  But  these  things  do  come 
in  bursts.  I've  noticed  that  before.  They  weren't  clear 
when  you  began  to  talk.     They're  clear  now." 

"Let  me  tell  you  this,"  said  Rosamund.  "A  cause 
must  have  martyrs." 

"I  don't  see  it,"  Audrey  protested.  "I  should  have 
thought  commonsense  would  be  lots  more  useful  than 
martyrs.  And  monomaniacs  never  do  have  common- 
sense." 

"You're  very  young." 

"Is  that  meant  for  an  insult,  or  is  it  just  a  state- 
ment?" Audrey  laughed  pleasantly. 

And  Rosamund  laughed  too. 

"It's  just  a  statement,"  said  she. 

"Well,  here's  another  statement,"  said  Audrey. 
"You're  very  old.  That's  where  I  have  the  advantage 
of  you.  Still,  tell  me  what  I  can  do  in  your  new  cam- 
paign, and  I'll  do  it  if  I  can.  But  there  isn't  going  to 
be  any  'utterly' — that's  all." 

"I  think  the  interval  is  over,"  said  Rosamund  with 
finality.     "Perhaps  we'd  better  adjourn." 


INTERVAL  389 

The  foyer  had  nearly  emptied.  The  distant  sound 
of  music  could  be  heard. 

As  she  was  re-entering  the  hall,  Audrey  met  Mr. 
Cowl,  who  was  coming  out. 

"I  have  decided  I  can't  stand  any  more,"  Mr.  Cowl 
remarked  in  a  loud  whisper.  "I  hope  you  didn't  mind 
me  telling  you  about  the  Zacatecas.  As  I  said,  I  thought 
you  might  be  interested.  Good-bye.  So  pleasant  to 
have  met  you  again,  dear  lady."  His  face  had  the  same 
enigmatic  smile  which  had  made  him  so  formidable  at 
Moze. 

Musa  had  already  begun  to  play  the  Spanish  Sym- 
phony of  Lalo,  without  which  no  genius  is  permitted 
to  make  his  formal  debut  on  the  violin  in  France. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 


entr'acte 


After  the  Spanish  Symphony  not  only  the  conduc- 
tor but  the  entire  orchestra  followed  Musa  from  the 
platform,  and  Audrey  understood  that  the  previous 
interval  had  not  really  been  an  interval  and  that  the 
first  genuine  interval  was  about  to  beg-in.  The  audience 
seemed  to  understand  this  too,  for  practically  the  whole 
of  it  stood  up  and  moved  towards  the  doors.  Audrey 
would  have  stayed  in  her  seat,  but  Miss  Ingate  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  go  out  and  "see  the  fun"  in  the 
foyer,  and  moreover  she  asserted  that  the  Foas  from 
their  box  had  been  signalling  to  her  and  Audrey  an 
intention  to  meet  them  in  the  foyer.  Miss  Ingate  was 
in  excellent  spirits.  She  said  it  beat  her  how  Musa's 
fingers  could  get  through  so  many  notes  in  so  short  a 
time,  and  also  that  it  made  her  feel  tired  even  to  watch 
the  fingers.  She  was  convinced  that  nobody  had  ever 
handled  the  violin  so  marvellously  before.  As  for  suc- 
cess, Mausa  had  been  recalled,  and  the  applause  from 
the  gallery,  fired  by  its  religious  belief,  was  obstinate 
and  extremely  vociferous.  Audrey,  however,  was  aware 
of  terrible  sick  qualms,  for  she  knew  that  Mausa  was  not 
so  far  dominating  his  public.  JVIuch  of  the  applause 
had  obviously  the  worst  quality  that  applause  can  have, 
— it  was  good-natured.  Yet  she  could  not  accept  fail- 
ure for  Musa.  Failure  would  be  too  monstrous  an  in- 
justice, and  therefore  it  could  not  happen. 

The  emptiness  of  the  Foas'  box  indicated  that  Miss 

390 


ENTR'ACTE  891 

Ingate  might  be  correct  in  her  interpretation  of  sig- 
nals, and  Audrey  allowed  herself  to  be  led  away  from 
the  now  forlorn  auditorium.  As  they  filed  along  the 
gangways  she  had  to  listen  to  the  indifferent  remarks 
of  utterly  unprejudiced  and  uninterested  persons  about 
the  performance  of  genius,  and  further  she  had  to  learn 
that  a  fair  proportion  of  them  were  departing  with  no 
intention  to  return.  In  the  thronged  foyer  they  saw 
Mr.  Gilman,  alone,  before  he  saw  them.  He  was  carry- 
ing a  box  of  chocolates — doubtless  one  of  the  little 
things  that  Mr.  Price  had  had  instructions  to  provide 
for  the  evening.  Mr.  Gilman  perhaps  would  not  have 
caught  sight  of  them  had  it  not  been  for  the  stridency 
of  Miss  Ingate's  voice,  which  caused  him  to  turn  round. 

Audrey  experienced  once  again  the  sensation — which 
latterly  was  apt  to  recur  in  her — of  having  too  many 
matters  on  her  mind  simultaneously;  in  a  phrase,  the 
sensation  of  the  exceeding  complexity  of  existence. 
And  she  resented  it.  The  interview  with  Rosamund 
was  quite  enough  for  one  night.  It  had  been  a  triumph 
for  her ;  she  had  surprised  herself  in  that  interview ; 
it  had  left  her  with  a  conviction  of  freedom ;  it  had  up- 
lifted her.  She  ought  to  have  been  in  a  state  of  ex- 
altation after  that  intervicAv,  and  she  was.  Only,  while 
in  a  state  of  exaltation,  she  was  still  in  the  old  state 
of  depression, — about  the  tendency  of  the  concert,  of 
her  concert,  and  about  the  rumoured  disappearance  of 
her  fortune.  Also  she  was  preoccupied  by  the  very 
strange  affair  of  Jane  Foley  and  Aguilar, 

And  now — a  further  intricacy  of  mood — came  a 
whole  new  set  of  emotions  due  to  the  mere  spectacle  of 
Mr.  Oilman's  august  back !  She  was  intimidated  by 
Mr.  Oilman's  back.  She  knew  horribly  that  in  the  af- 
ternoon  she  had  treated  Mr.  Gilman  as  Mr.  Gilman 
ought  never  to  have  been  treated.     And,  quite  apart 


392  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

from  intimidation,  she  had  another  feeling,  a  feeling 
which  was  ghastly  and  of  which  she  was  ashamed.  .  .  . 
Assuming  the  disappearance  of  her  fortune,  would  Mr. 
Gilman's  attitude  towards  her  be  thereby  changed? 
.  .  .  She  admitted  that  young  girls  ought  not  to  have 
such  suspicions  against  respectable  and  mature  men 
of  established  position  in  the  world.  Nevertheless  she 
could  not  blow  the  suspicion  away. 

But  the  instant  Mr.  Gilman's  eye  met  hers  the  sus- 
picion vanished,  and  not  the  suspicion  only,  but  all  her 
intimidation.  The  miracle  was  produced  by  something 
in  the  gaze  of  Mr.  Oilman  as  it  rested  on  her,  something 
wistful — not  more  definable  than  that,  something  which 
she  had  noticed  in  Mr.  Gilman's  gaze  on  other  occa- 
sions. It  perfectly  restored  her.  It  gave  her  the  posi- 
tive assurance  of  a  fact  which  marvellously  enheartcns 
young  girls  of  about  Audrey's  years, — to  wit,  that  they 
have  a  mysterious  power  surpassing  the  power  of  age, 
knowledge,  wisdom,  or  wealth,  that  they  influence  and 
decide  the  course  of  history,  and  are  the  sole  true  mis- 
tresses of  the  world.  Whence  the  mysterious  power 
sprang  she  did  not  exactly  know,  but  she  surmised — 
rightly — that  it  was  connected  with  her  youth,  with  a 
dimple,  with  the  incredibly  soft  down  on  her  cheek, 
with  the  arch  softness  of  her  glance,  with  a  gesture  of 
the  hand,  with  a  turn  of  the  shoulder,  with  a  pleat  of 
the  skirt.  .  .  .  Anyhow  she  possessed  it,  and  to  possess 
it  was  to  wield  it.  It  transformed  her  into  a  dehcious 
tyrant,  but  a  tyrant;  it  inspired  her  with  exquisite 
cruelty,  but  cruelty.  Her  thoughts  might  have  been 
summed  up  in  eight  words : 

"Pooh!     He  has  suffered.     Well,  he  must  suffer.'* 
Ah !    But  she  meant  to  be  very  kind  to  him.     He  was 
so  reliable,  so  adorable,  and  so  dependent.     She  had 


ENTR'ACTE  393 

genuine  aifection  for  him.  And  he  was  at  once  a  rock 
and  a  cushion. 

"Isn't  it  going  splendidly — splendidly,  Mr.  Gilman?" 
exclaimed  Miss  Ingate  in  her  enthusiasm. 

"Apparently,"  said  Mr.  Gilman,  with  comfort  in 
his  voice. 

At  that  moment  the  musical  critic  with  large  dark 
eastern  eyes  whom  Audrey  had  met  at  the  Foas'  strolled 
nonchalantly  by,  and,  perceiving  Miss  Ingate,  described 
a  huge  and  perfect  curve  in  the  air  with  his  glossy  silk 
hat,  which  had  been  tipped  at  the  back  of  his  head. 
Mr.  Gilman  had  come  close  to  Audrey. 

"The  Foas  started  down  with  me,"  said  Mr.  Gil- 
man mildly.  "But  they  always  meet  such  crowds  of 
acquaintances  at  these  affairs  that  they  seldom  get 
anywhere.  Hortense  would  not  leave  the  box.  She 
never  will." 

"Oh!  I'm  so  glad  I've  seen  you,"  Audrey  began  ex- 
citedly, but  with  simplicity  and  compelling  sweetness. 
"You've  no  idea  how  sorry  I  am  about  this  afternoon! 
I'm  frightfully  sorry,  really!  But  I  was  so  upset.  I 
didn't  know  what  to  do.  You  know  how  anxious  every- 
body was  about  Musa  for  to-night.  He's  the  pet  of  the 
Quarter  and  of  course  I  belong  to  the  Quarter.  At 
least — I  did.  I  thought  he  might  be  ill,  or  something. 
However,  it  was  all  right  in  the  end.  I  was  looking 
forward  tremendously  to  that  drive.  Are  you  going  to 
forgive  me.P" 

"Please,  please!"  he  eagerly  entreated,  with  a  faint 
blush.  "Of  course  I  quite  understood.  There's  noth- 
ing whatever  to  forgive." 

"Oh!  but  there  is,"  she  insisted.  "Only  you're  so 
good-natured." 

She  was  being  magnanimous.  She  was  pretending 
that  she  had  no  mysterious  power.    But  her  motive  was 


394  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

quite  pure.  If  he  was  good-natured,  so  was  she.  She 
honestly  wanted  to  recompense  him,  and  to  recompense 
him  richly.  And  she  did.  Her  demeanour  was  en- 
chanting in  its  ingenuous  flattery.  She  felt  happy  de- 
spite all  her  anxieties,  for  he  was  living  up  to  her  ideal 
of  him.  She  felt  happy,  and  her  resolve  to  make  him 
happy  to  the  very  hmit  of  his  dreams  was  intense.  She 
had  a  vision  of  her  future  existence  stretching  out  in 
front  of  her,  and  there  was  not  a  shadow  on  it.  She 
thought  he  was  going  to  offer  her  the  box  of  chocolates, 
but  he  did  not. 

"I  rather  wanted  to  ask  your  advice,"  she  said. 

"I  wish  you  would,"  he  replied. 

Just  then  the  Foas  arrived,  and  with  them  Dauphin, 
the  great  and  fashionable  painter  and  the  original  dis- 
coverer of  Musa.  And  as  they  all  began  to  speak  at 
once  Audrey  heard  the  Oriental  musical  critic  say 
slowly  to  an  enquiring  Miss  Ingate : 

"It  is  not  a  concert  talent  that  he  has." 

"You  hear !  You  hear !"  exclaimed  Monsieur  Foa  to 
Monsieur  Dauphin  and  Madame  Foa,  with  an  impressed 
air.  "You  hear  what  Miquette  says.  He  has  not  a 
concert  talent.  He  has  everything  that  you  like,  but 
not  a  concert  talent." 

Foa  seemed  to  be  exhibiting  the  majestic  Oriental, 
nicknamed  Miquette,  as  the  final  arbiter,  whose  word 
settled  problems  like  a  sword,  and  Miquette  seemed  to 
be  trying  to  bear  the  high  role  with  negligent  modesty. 

"But,  yes,  he  has !  But,  yes,  he  has !"  Dauphin  pro- 
tested, sweeping  all  Miquettes  politely  away.  And  then 
there  was  an  urbane  riot  of  greetings,  salutes,  bowings, 
smilings,  cooings  and  compliments. 

Dauphin  was  magnificent,  playing  the  part  of  the 
opulent  painter  a  la  mode  with  the  most  finished  skill, 
the  most  splendid  richness  of  detail.     It  was  notorious 


ENTR'ACTE  395 

that  in  the  evenings  he  wore  the  finest  silk  shirts  in 
Paris,  and  his  waistcoat  was  designed  to  give  scope  to 
these  shirts.  He  might  have  come — he  probably  had 
come — straight  from  the  bower  of  archduchesses ;  but 
he  produced  in  Audrey  the  illusion  that  archduchesses 
were  a  trifle  compared  to  herself.  He  had  not  seen  her 
for  a  long  time.  Gazing  at  her,  he  breathed  relief; 
all  his  features  indicated  the  sudden,  unexpected  as- 
suaging of  eternal  and  intense  desires.  He  might  have 
been  travelling  through  the  desert  for  many  days  and 
she  might  have  been  the  oasis — the  pool  of  living  water 
and  the  palm. 

"Now — like  that !  Just  like  that !"  he  said,  holding 
her  hand  and  as  it  were  hypnotising  her  in  the  pose  in 
which  she  happened  to  be.  He  looked  hard  at  her.  "It 
is  unique.     Madame,  where  did  you  find  that  dress.'"' 

"Callot,"  answered  Audrey  submissively. 

"I  thought  so.  Well,  Madame,  I  can  wait  no  more. 
I  will  wait  no  more.  It  is  Dauphin  who  implores  you 
to  come  to  his  studio.  To  come — it  is  your  duty.  Ma- 
dame Foa,  you  will  bring  her.  I  count  on  you  abso- 
lutely to  bring  her.  Even  if  it  is  only  to  be  a  sketch — ■ 
the  merest  hint.    But  I  must  do  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  madame,"  said  Madame  Foa  with  all  the 
Italian  charm.  "Dauphin  must  paint  you.  The  con- 
trary is  unthinkable.  My  husband  and  I  have  often 
said  so." 

"To-morrow  .f"'  Dauphin  suggested. 

"Ah!  To-morrow,  my  little  Dauphin,  I  cannot," 
said  Madame  Foa. 

"Nor  I,"  said  Audrey. 

"The  day^  after  to-morrow,  then.  I  will  send  my 
auto.  What  address .?  Half-past  eleven.  That  goes.'' 
In  any  case,  I  insist.     Be  kind!    Be  kind!" 

Audrey  blushed.     Half  the  foyer  was  staring  at  the 


396  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

group.  She  was  flattered.  She  saw  herself  remark- 
able. She  thought  she  would  look  more  particularly, 
with  perfect  detachment,  at  the  mirror  that  night,  in 
order  to  decide  whether  her  appearance  was  as  striking, 
as  original,  as  distinguished,  as  Dauphin's  attitude  im- 
plied.    There  must  surely  be  something  in  it. 

"About  that  advice — may  I  call  to-morrow?"  It 
was  Mr.  Gilraan's  voice  at  her  elbow. 

"Advice.'"'  She  had  forgotten  her  announced  in- 
tention of  asking  his  advice.  (The  subject  was  to  be 
Zacatecas).  "Oh,  yes.  How  nice  of  you!  Please  do 
call.  Come  for  tea."  She  was  delightful  to  him,  but  at 
the  same  time  there  was  in  her  tone  a  little  of  the  con- 
descending casualness  proper  to  the  tone  of  a  girl 
openly  admired  by  the  confidant  and  painter  of  prin- 
cesses and  archduchesses,  the  man  who  treated  all  plain 
women  and  women  past  the  prime  with  a  desolating  in- 
difference. 

She  thought: 

"I  am  a  rotten  little  snob." 

Mr.  Gilman  gave  thanksgivings  and  departed,  ex- 
plaining that  he  must  return  to  Madame  Piriac. 

Foa  and  Dauphin  and  the  Oriental  resumed  the  argu- 
ment about  Musa's  talent  and  the  concert.  Miquette 
would  say  nothing  as  to  the  success  of  the  concert. 
Foa  asserted  that  the  concert  was  not  and  would  not 
be  a  success.  Dauphin  pooh-poohed  and  insisted  ve- 
hemently that  the  success  was  unmistakable  and  in- 
creasing. Moreover,  he  criticised  the  hall,  the  choice 
of  programme,  the  orchestra,  the  conductor.  "I  dis- 
covered Musa,"  said  he.  "I  have  always  said  that  he 
is  a  great  concert  player,  and  that  he  is  destined  for 
a  great  world-success,  and  to-night  I  am  more  sure 
of  it  than  ever."  Whereupon  Madame  Foa  said  with 
much   sympathy   that   she   hoped  it  was   so,  and  Foa 


ENTR'ACTE  397 

said :  "You  create  illusions  for  yourself,  on  purpose." 
Dauphin  bore  him  down  with  wavy  gestures  and  warm 
cries  of  "No !  No !  No !"  And  he  appealed  to  Au- 
drey as  a  woman  incapable  of  illusions.  And  Audrey 
agreed  with  Dauphin.  And  while  she  was  agreeing 
she  kept  saying  to  herself:  "Why  do  I  pretend  to 
agree  with  him.'*  He  is  not  sincere.  He  knows  he 
is  not  sincere.  We  all  know — except  perhaps  Winnie 
Ingate.  The  concert  is  a  failure.  If  it  were  not  a 
failure,  Madame  Foa  would  not  be  so  sympathetic. 
She  is  more  subtle  even  than  Madame  Piriac.  I  shall 
never  be  subtle  like  that.  I  wish  I  could  be.  I  wish  I 
was  at  Moze.  I  am  too  Essex  for  all  this.  And  Winnie 
here  is  too  comic  for  words." 

An  aged  and  repellent  Jew  came  into  sight.  He 
raised  Madame  Foa's  hand  to  his  odious  lips  and 
kissed  it,  and  Audrey  wondered  how  Madame  Foa 
could  tolerate  the  formality. 

"Well,  Monsieur  Xavier.?" 

Xavier  shrugged  his  round  shoulders. 

"Do  not  say,"  said  he,  in  a  hoarse  voice  to  the  com- 
pany, "do  not  say  that  I  have  not  done  my  best  on 
this  occasion."  He  lifted  his  eyes  heavenward,  and 
as  he  did  so  his  passing  glance  embraced  Audrey,  and 
she  violently  hated  him. 

"Winnie,"  said  she,  "I  think  we  ought  to  be  get- 
ting back  to  our  seats." 

"But,"  cried  Madame  Foa,  "we  are  going  round 
with  Dauphin  to  the  artists'  room.  You  do  not  come 
with  us,  Madame  MoncreifF,?" 

"In  your  place  .  .  ."  muttered  Xavier  discourag- 
ingly,  with  a  look  at  Dauphin,  and  another  shrug  of 
the  shoulders.     "I  have  been  .  .   ." 

"Ah !"  said  Dauphin,  in  a  strange  new  tone.     And 


898  .THE  LION'S  SHARE 

then  very  brightly  to  Audrey :    "Now,  as  to  Saturday, 

dear  lady " 

Xavier  engaged  in  private  converse  with  Foa,  and 
his  demeanour  to  Foa  was  extremely  deferential, 
whereas  he  almost  Ignored  the  Oriental  critic.  And 
Audrey  puzzled  her  head  once  again  to  discover  why 
the  Foas  should  exert  such  influence  upon  the  fate  of 
music  in  Paris.  The  enigma  was  only  one  among 
many. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 


END    OF    THE    CONCERT 


The  first  item  after  the  true  interval  was  the  Cha- 
conne  of  Bach,  which  Musa  had  played  upon  a  memor- 
able occasion  in  Frinton.  He  stood  upon  the  platform 
utterly  alone,  against  a  background  of  empty  chairs, 
double-basses,  and  drums.  He  seemed  to  be  un- 
friended and  forlorn.  It  appeared  to  Audrey  that  he 
was  playing  with  despair.  She  wished,  as  she  looked 
from  Musa  to  the  deserted  places  in  the  body  of  the 
hall,  that  the  piece  was  over,  and  that  the  entire  con- 
cert was  over.  How  could  any  one  enjoy  such  an  arid 
maze  of  sounds?  The  whole  theory  of  classical  com- 
position and  its  vogue  was  hollow  and  ridiculous. 
People  did  not  like  the  classics ;  they  could  not  and 
they  never  would.  Now  a  waltz  .  .  .  after  a  jolly 
dinner  and  wine !  .  .  .  But  the  Chaconne !  But  Bach ! 
But  culture !  The  audience  was  visibly  and  audibly 
restless.  For  about  two  hundred  years  the  attempt 
to  force  this  Chaconne  upon  the  public  had  been  con- 
tinuous, and  it  was  still  boring  them.  Of  course  it 
was !     The  thing  was  unnatural. 

And  she  herself  was  a  fool ;  she  was  a  ninny.  And 
the  alleged  power  of  money  was  an  immense  fraud. 
She  had  thought  to  perform  miracles  by  means  of  a 
banking-account.  For  a  moment  she  had  imagined 
that  the  miracles  had  come  to  pass.  But  they  had 
not  come  to  pass.  The  public  was  too  old,  too  tired, 
and   too   wary.      It    could    not   thus    be    tricked   into 

399 


400  JHE  LION'S  SHARE 

making  a  reputation.  The  forces  that  made  reputa- 
tions were  far  less  amenable  than  she  had  fancied. 
The  world  was  too  clever  and  too  experienced  for  her 
ingenuous  self.  Geniuses  were  not  lying  about  and 
waiting  to  be  picked  up.  Musa  was  not  a  genius. 
She  had  been  a  simpleton,  and  the  sacred  Quarter 
had  been  a  simpleton.  She  was  rather  angry  with 
Musa  for  not  being  a  genius.  And  the  confidence 
which  he  had  displayed  a  few  hours  earlier  was  just 
grotesque  conceit !  And  men  and  women  who  were 
supposed  to  be  friendly  human  hearts  were  not  so  in 
truth.  They  were  merely  indifferent  and  callous  spec- 
tators. The  Foas,  for  example,  were  chattering  in  their 
box,  apparently  obuvious  of  the  tragedy  that  was 
enacting  under  their  eyes.  But  then,  it  was  perhaps 
not  a  tragedy ;  it  was  perhaps  a  farce. 

And  what  would  these  self-absorbed  spectators  of 
existence  say  and  do,  if  and  when  it  was  known  that 
she  was  no  longer  a  young  woman  of  enormous  wealth.'* 
Would  Dauphin  have  sought  to  compel  her  to  enter 
his  studio  had  he  been  aware  that  her  fortune  had 
gone  up  in  smoke?  She  was  not  in  a  real  world.  She 
was  in  a  world  of  shams.  And  she  was  a  sham  in  the 
world  of  shams.  She  wanted  to  be  back  again  in  the 
honest  realities  of  Moze,  where  in  the  churchyard  she 
could  see  the  tombs  of  her  great-great-grandfathers. 
Only  one  extraneous  interest  drew  her  thoughts  away 
from  Moze.  That  interest  was  Mr.  Oilman.  Mr. 
Oilman  was  her  conquest  and  her  slave.  She  adored 
him  because  he  was  so  wistful  and  so  reliable  and  so 
adoring.  Mr.  Oilman  sat  intent  and  straight  upright 
in  Madame  Piriac's  box  and  behaved  just  as  though 
Bach  himself  was  present.  He  understood  nothing 
of  Bach,  but  he  could  be  trusted  to  behave  with 
benevolence. 


END  OF  THE  CONCERT  401 

The  music  suddenly  ceased.  The  Chaconne  was  fin- 
ished. The  gallery  of  enthusiasts  still  applauded  with 
vociferation,  with  mystic  faith,  with  sublime  obstinacy. 
It  was  carrying  on  a  sort  of  religious  war  against  the 
base  apathy  of  the  rest  of  the  audience.  It  was  de- 
termined to  force  its  belief  down  the  throats  of  the 
unintelligent  mob.  It  had  made  up  its  mind  that  until 
it  had  had  its  way  the  world  should  stand  still.  No 
encore  had  yet  been  obtained,  and  the  gallery  was  set 
on  an  encore.  The  clapping  fainted,  expired,  and 
then  broke  into  new  life,  only  to  expire  again  and  re- 
commence. A  few  irritated  persons  hissed.  The  gal- 
lery responded  with  vigour.  Musa,  having  retired,  re- 
appeared, very  white,  and  bowed.  The  applause  was 
feverish  and  unconvincing.  Musa  vanished.  But  the 
gallery  had  thick  soles  and  hard  hands  and  stout 
sticks,  even  serviceable  umbrellas.  It  could  not  be 
appeased  by  bows  alone.  And  after  about  three  min- 
utes of  tedious  manoeuvring,  Musa  had  at  last  to  yield 
an  encore  that  in  fact  nobody  wanted.  He  played  a 
foolish  pyrotechnical  affair  of  De  Beriot,  which  re- 
sembled nothing  so  much  as  a  joke  at  a  funeral.  After 
that  the  fate  of  the  concert  could  not  be  disputed  even 
by  the  gallery.  At  the  finish  of  the  evening  there  was, 
in  the  terrible  idiom  of  the  theatre,  "not  a  hand." 

Whether  Musa  had  played  well  or  ill,  Audrey  had 
not  the  least  idea.  Nor  did  that  point  seem  to  mat- 
ter. Naught  but  the  attitude  of  the  public  seemed  to 
matter.  This  was  strange,  because  for  a  year  Audrey 
had  been  learning  steadily  in  the  Quarter  that  the 
attitude  of  the  public  had  no  importance  whatever. 
She  suffered  from  the  delusion  that  the  public  was 
staring  at  her  and  saying  to  her :  "You,  you  silly  little 
thing,  are  responsible  for  this  fiasco.  We  condescended 
to  come — and  this  is  what  you  have  offered  us.     Go 


402  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

home,  and  let  your  hair  down  and  shorten  your  skirts, 
for  you  are  no  better  than  a  schoolgirl,  after  all."  She 
was  really  self-conscious.  She  despised  Musa,  or  rather 
she  threw  to  him  a  little  condescending  pity.  And  yet 
at  the  same  time  she  was  furious  against  that  group 
in  the  foyer  for  being  so  easily  dissuaded  from  going 
to  see  Musa  in  the  artists'  room.  .  .  .  Rats  deserting 
a  sinking  ship !  .  .  .  People,  even  the  nicest,  would 
drop  a  failure  like  a  match  that  was  burning  out.  .  .  . 
Yes,  and  they  would  drop  her.  .  .  .  No,  they  would 
not,  because  of  Mr.  Gilman.  Mr.  Gilman  was  calling 
to  see  her  to-morrow.  He  was  the  rock  and  the  cush- 
ion. She  would  send  Miss  Ingate  out  for  the  after- 
noon. As  the  audience  hurried  eagerly  forth  she  spoke 
sharply  to  Miss  Ingate.  She  was  indeed  very  rude 
to  Miss  Ingate.  She  was  exasperated,  and  Miss  In- 
gate happened  to  be  handy. 

In  the  foyer  not  a  trace  of  the  Foa  clan  nor  of 
Madame  Piriac  and  her  husband,  nor  of  Mr.  Gilman! 
But  Tommy  and  Nick  were  there,  putting  on  their 
cloaks,  and  with  them,  but  not  helping  them,  was  Mr. 
Zicgler.  The  blond  Mr.  Ziegler  greeted  Audrey  as 
though  the  occasion  of  their  previous  meeting  had  been 
a  triumph  for  him.  His  self-satisfaction,  if  ever  it  had 
been  damaged,  was  repaired  to  perfection.  The  girls 
were  silent ;  Miss  Ingate  was  silent ;  but  Mr.  Zicgler 
was  not  silent. 

"He  played  better  than  I  did  anticipate,"  said  Mr. 
Ziegler,  lighting  a  cigarette,  after  he  had  nonchalantly 
acknowledged  the  presentation  to  him  of  Miss  Ingate. 
"But  of  what  use  is  this  French  public.'^  None.  Even 
had  he  succeeded  here,  it  would  have  meant  nothing. 
Nothing.  In  music  Paris  does  not  exist.  There  are 
six  towns  in  Germany  where  success  means  vorldt- 
reputation.     Not  that  he  would  succeed  in  Germany. 


END  OF  THE  CONCERT  403 

He  has  not  studied  In  Gennany.  And  outside  Ger- 
many there  are  no  schools.  However,  we  have  the 
intention  to  impose  our  culture  upon  all  European 
nations,  including  France.  In  one  year  our  army  will 
be  here — in  Paris.  I  should  wait  for  that,  but  prob- 
ably I  shall  be  called  up.  In  any  case,  I  shall  be 
present." 

"But  whatever  do  you  mean.'"'  cried  Miss  Ingate. 

"What  do  I  mean.''  I  mean  our  army  will  be  here. 
All  know  it  in  Germany.  They  know  it  in  Paris !  But 
what  can  they  do.''  How  can  they  stop  us.''  .  .  . 
Decadent!  .  .   ."     He  laughed  easily. 

"Oh,  my  chocolates!"  exclaimed  Miss  Thompkins. 
"I've  left  them  in  the  hall!" 

"No,  here  they   are,"  said  Nick,  handing  the  box. 

To  Audrey  it  seemed  to  be  the  identical  box  that 
Mr.  Gilman  had  been  carrying.  But  of  course  it 
might  not  be.  Thousands  of  chocolate  boxes  resemble 
each  other  exactly. 

Carefully  ignoring  Mr.  Ziegler,  Audrey  remarked 
to  Tommy  with  a  light-heartedness  which  she  did  not 
feel: 

"Well,  what  did  you  think  of  Jane  this  afternoon.'"' 

"Jane.?" 

"Jane  Foley.  Nick  was  taking  you  to  see  her, 
wasn't  she.'"' 

"Oh,  yes !"  said  Tommy  with  a  smile.  "But  I  didn't 
go.    I  went  for  a  motor  drive  with  Mr.  Gilman." 

There  was  a  short  pause.     At  length  Tonrniy  said: 

"So  he's  got  the  goods  on  you  at  last !" 

"Who?"  Audrey  sharply  questioned. 

"Dauphin.  I  knew  he  would.  Remember  my  words. 
That  portrait  will  cost  you  forty  thousand  francs, 
not  counting  the  frame." 

This  was  the  end  of  the  concert. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

STRANGE  RESULT  OF  A  QUARREL 

The  next  afternoon  Audrey  sat  nervous  and  ex- 
pectant, but  highly  finished,  in  her  drawing-room  at 
the  Hotel  du  Danube.  Miss  Ingate  had  gone  out, 
pretending  to  be  quite  unaware  that  she  had  been 
sent  out.  The  more  detailed  part  of  Audrey's  toilette 
had  been  accomplished  subsequent  to  Miss  Ingate's  de- 
parture, for  Audrey  had  been  at  pains  to  inform  Miss 
Ingate  that  she,  Audrey,  was  even  less  interested  than 
usual  in  her  appearance  that  afternoon.  They  were 
close  and  mutually  reliable  friends;  but  every  friend- 
ship has  its  reservations.  Elise  also  was  out;  indeed 
Miss  Ingate  had  taken  her. 

Audrey  had  the  weight  of  all  the  world  on  her,  and 
so  long  as  she  was  alone  she  permitted  herself  to  look 
as  though  she  had.  She  had  to  be  wise,  not  only  for 
Audrey  Moze,  but  for  others.  She  had  to  be  wise  for 
Musa,  whose  failure,  though  the  newspapers  all  spoke 
(at  about  twenty  francs  a  line)  of  his  overwhelming 
success,  was  admittedly  lamentable ;  and  she  hated 
Musa ;  she  confessed  that  she  had  been  terribly  mis- 
taken in  Musa,  both  as  an  artist  and  as  a  man ;  still,  he 
was  on  her  mind.  She  had  to  be  wise  about  her  share  in 
the  new  campaign  of  Rosamund,  which,  while  not  on  her 
mind,  was  on  her  conscience.  She  had  to  be  wise 
about  the  presumable  loss  of  her  fortune ;  she  had 
telegraphed  to  Mr.  Foulger  early  that  morning  for 
information,   and   an   answer  was   now  due.      Finally 

404 


STRANGE  RESULT  OF  A  QUARREL  405 

she  had  to  be  wise  for  Mr.  Gllman,  whose  happiness 
depended  on  a  tone  of  her  voice,  on  a  single  mono- 
syllable breathed  through  those  rich  lips.  She  looked 
forward  with  interest  to  being  wise  for  Mr.  Oilman. 
She  felt  capable  of  that.  The  other  necessary  wis- 
doms troubled  her  brow.  She  seemed  to  be  more  full 
of  responsibility  and  sagacity  than  any  human  being 
could  have  been  expected  to  be.  She  was,  however, 
very  calm.     Her  calmness  was  prodigious. 

Then  the  bell  rang,  and  she  could  hear  one  of  the 
hotel  attendants  open  the  outer  door  with  his  key. 
Instantly  her  calmness,  of  which  she  had  been  so  proud, 
was  dashed  to  pieces  and  she  had  scarcely  begun  in  a 
hurry  to  pick  the  pieces  up  and  put  them  together 
again  when  the  attendant  entered  the  drawing-room. 
She  was  afraid,  but  she  thought  she  was  happy. 

Only  it  was  not  Mr.  Gilman  the  attendant  an- 
nounced.    The  man  said : 

"Mademoiselle  Nickall." 

Audrey  said  to  herself  that  she  must  get  Nick  very 
quickly  away.  She  was  in  no  humour  to  talk  even  to 
Nick,  and,  moreover,  she  did  not  want  Nick  to  know 
that  Mr.  Gilman  was  calling  upon  her. 

Miss  Nickall  was  innocent  and  sweet.  Good-nature 
radiated  from  her  soft,  tired  features,  and  was  some- 
how also  entangled  in  her  fluffy  grey  hair.  She  kissed 
Audrey  with   affection. 

"I've  just  come  to  say  good-bye,  you  dear!'" 
she  said,  sitting  down  and  putting  her  check  parasol 
across  her  knees.     "How  lovely  you  look !" 

"Good-bye?"  Audrey  questioned.     "Do  I.?" 

"I  have  to  cross  for  England  to-night.  I've  had  my 
orders.  Rosamund  came  this  morning.  What  about 
yours  ?" 

"Oh!"  said  Audrey.     "I  don't  take  orders.     But  I 


406  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

expect  I  shall  join  in,  one  of  these  days,  when  I've  had 
everything  explained  to  me  properly.  You  see,  you 
and  I  haven't  got  the  same  tastes,  Nick.  You  aren't 
happy  without  a  martyrdom.     I  am." 

Nick  smiled  gravely  and  uncertainly.  ^ 

"It's  very  serious  this  time,"  said  she.  "Hasn't 
Rosamund  spoken  to  you  yet.^"' 

"She's  spoken  to  me.  And  I've  spoken  to  her.  It 
was  deuce,  I  should  say.  Or  perhaps  my  'vantage. 
Anyhow,  I'm  not  moving  just  yet." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Nick,  "if  you're  staying  in  Paris, 
I  hope  you'll  keep  an  eye  on  Musa.  He  needs  it. 
Tommy's  going  away.  At  least  I  fancy  she  is.  We 
both  went  to  see  him  this  morning." 

"Both  of  you!" 

"Well,  you  see,  we've  always  looked  after  him.  He 
was  in  a  terrible  state  about  last  night.  That's  really 
one  reason  why  I  called.  Not  that  I'd  have  gone 
without  kissing  you " 

She  stopped.  There  was  another  ring  at  the  bell. 
The  attendant  came  in  with  great  rapidity. 

"I'm  lost!"  thought  Audrey,  disgusted  and  per- 
turbed.     "Her  being  here   will   spoil   everything." 

But  the  attendant  handed  her  a  card,  and  the  card 
bore  the  name  of  Musa.  Audrey  flushed.  Almost  in- 
stinctively, without  thinking,  she  passed  the  card  to 
Nick. 

"My  land!"  exclaimed  Nick.  "If  he  sees  me  here 
he'll  think  I've  come  on  purpose  to  talk  about  him 
and  pity  him,  and  he'll  be  just  perfectly  furious.  Can 
I  get  out  any  other  way.?"  She  glanced  interroga- 
tively at  the  half-open  door  of  the  bedroom. 

"But  I  don't  want  to  see  him,  either!"  Audrey  pro- 
tested. 


STRANGE  RESULT  OF  A  QUARREL  407 

*'0h !  You  must !  Hell  listen  to  sense  from  you, 
perhaps.     Can  I  go  this  way?" 

Lnp'elled  to  act  in  spite  of  herself,  Audrey  took 
Nick  into  the  bedroom,  and  as  soon  as  Musa  had  been 
introduced  into  the  drawing-room  she  embraced  Nick 
in  silence  and  escorted  her  on  tip-toe  through  Miss 
Ingate's  bedroom  to  the  vestibule  and  waved  an  adieu. 
Then  she  retraced  her  steps  and  made  a  grand  entry 
into  the  drawing-room  from  her  own  bedroom.  She 
meant  to  dispose  of  Musa  immediately.  A  meeting 
between  him  and  Mr.  Oilman  on  her  hearthrug  might 
involve  the  most  horrible  complications. 

The  young  man  and  the  young  woman  shook  hands. 
But  it  was  the  hand-shaking  of  bruisers  when  they 
enter  the  ring,  and  before  the  blood  starts  to  flow. 

"Won't  you  please  sit  down.''"  said  Audrey.  He 
was  obliged  now  to  obey  her,  as  she  had  been  obliged 
to  obey  him  on  the  previous  afternoon  in  the  Rue 
Cassette. 

If  Audrey  looked  as  though  the  whole  world  was  on 
her  shoulders,  Musa's  face  seemed  to  contradict  hers 
and  to  say  that  the  world,  far  from  being  on  anybody's 
shoulders,  had  come  to  an  end.  All  the  expression 
of  the  violinist  showed  that  in  his  honest  conviction  a 
great  mundane  calamity  had  occurred,  the  calamity  of 
course  being  that  his  violin-bow  had  not  caused  catgut 
to  vibrate  in  such  a  way  as  to  affect  the  ears  of  a 
particular  set  of  people  in  a  particular  manner.  But 
in  addition  to  this  sense  of  a  calamity  he  was  under 
the  influence  of  another  emotion, — angry  resentment. 
However,  he  sat  down,  holding  firmly  his  hat,  gloves, 
and  stick. 

"I  saw  my  agent  this  morning,"  said  he,  in  a  grating 
voice,  in  French.     He  was  pale. 

"Yes.'*"   said  Audrey.      She  suddenly  guessed  what 


408  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

was  coming,  and  she  felt  a  certain  alarm,  which  never- 
theless was  not  entirely  disagreeable. 

"Why  did  you  pay  for  that  concert,  and  the  future 
concerts,  without  telling  me,  Madame?" 

"Paid  for  the  concerts?"  she  repeated,  rather 
weakly. 

"Yes,  Madame.  To  do  so  was  to  make  me  ridiculous 
— not  to  the  world,  but  to  myself.  For  I  believed 
all  the  time  that  I  had  succeeded  in  gaining  the  genuine 
interest  of  an  agent  who  was  prepared  to  risk  money 
upon  the  proper  exploitation  of  my  talent.  I  worked 
in  that  belief.  In  spite  of  your  attitude  to  me  I  did 
work.  Your  antipathy  was  bad  for  me;  but  I  con- 
quered myself,  and  I  worked.  I  had  confidence  in 
myself.  If  last  night  I  did  not  have  a  triumph,  it 
was  not  because  I  did  not  work,  but  because  I  had 
been  upset — and  again  by  you,  Madame.  Even  after 
the  misfortune  of  last  night  I  still  had  confidence,  for 
I  knew  that  the  reasons  of  my  failure  were  accidental 
and  temporary.  But  I  now  know  that  I  was  living 
in  a  fool's  paradise,  which  you  had  kindly  created  for 
me.  You  have  money.  Apparently  you  have  too  much 
money.  And  with  money  you  possess  the  arrogance 
of  wealth.  You  know  that  I  had  accepted  assistance 
from  good  friends.  And  you  thought  in  your  arro- 
gance that  you  might  launch  me  without  informing  me 
of  your  intention.  You  thought  it  would  amuse  you 
to  make  a  little  fairy-tale  in  real  life.  It  was  a  negli- 
gent gesture  on  the  part  of  a  rich  and  idle  woman. 
It  cost  you  nothing  save  a  few  bank-notes,  of  which 
you  had  so  many  that  it  bored  you  to  count  them. 
How  amusing  to  make  a  reputation !  How  charitable 
to  help  a  starving  player!  But  you  forgot  one  thing. 
You  forgot  my  dignity  and  my  honour.  It  was  noth- 
ing to  you  that  you  exposed  these  to  the  danger  of  the 


STRANGE  RESULT  OF  A  QUARREL  409 

most  grave  affront.  It  was  nothing  to  you  that  I 
was  deceived  just  as  though  I  had  been  a  child,  and 
that  for  months  I  was  made,  without  knowing  it,  to 
fuh*!!  the  role  of  a  conceited  jackanapes.  When  one  is 
led  to  have  confidence  in  oneself  one  is  tempted  to 
adopt  a  certain  tone  and  to  use  certain  phrases,  which 
may  or  may  not  be  justified.  I  yielded  to  the  temp- 
tation. I  was  wrong,  but  I  was  also  victimised.  This 
morning,  with  a  moment's  torture  under  the  imperti- 
nent tongue  of  a  rascally  impresario,  I  paid  for  all 
the  spurious  confidence  which  I  have  felt  and  for  all 
the  proud  words  I  have  uttered.  I  came  to-day  in 
order  to  lay  at  your  feet  my  thanks  for  the  unique 
humiliation  which  I  owe  to  you." 

His  mien  was  undoubtedly  splendid.  It  ought  to 
have  cowed  and  shamed  Audrey.  But  it  did  not.  She 
absolutely  refused  to  acknowledge,  even  within  her 
own  heart,  that  she  had  committed  any  wrong.  On 
the  contrary,  she  remembered  all  the  secret  sympathy 
which  she  had  lavished  on  Musa,  all  her  very  earnest 
and  single-minded  desires  for  his  apotheosis  at  the 
hands  of  the  Parisian  public ;  and  his  ingratitude  posi- 
tively exasperated  her.  She  was  aroused.  But  she 
tried  to  hide  the  fact  that  she  was  roused,  speaking  in 
a  guarded  and  sardonic  voice. 

"And  did  this  agent  of  yours — I  do  not  know  his 
name — tell  you  that  I  was  paying  for  the  concert — I 
mean  the  concerts.'"'  she  demanded  with  an  air  of  im- 
passivity. 

"He  did  not  give  your  name." 

"That's  something,"  Audrey  put  in,  her  body  trem- 
bling.    "I  am  much  obliged  to  him." 

"But  he  clearly  indicated  that  money  had  been  paid 
— that  he  had  not  paid  it  himself, — that  the  enterprise 
was  not  genuine.     He  permitted  himself  to  sneer  until 


410  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

I  corrected  him.  He  then  withdrew  what  he  had  said 
and  told  me  that  I  had  misunderstood.  But  he  was 
not  convincing.  It  was  too  late.  And  I  had  not  mis- 
understood. Far  from  that,  I  had  understood.  At 
once  the  truth  traversed  my  mind  like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning.    It  was  you  who  had  paid." 

"And  how  did  you  guess  that.^"  She  laughed  care- 
lessly, though  she  could  not  keep  her  foot  from  shak- 
ing on  the  carpet. 

"I  knew  because  I  knew !"  cried  Musa.  "It  explained 
all  your  conduct,  your  ways  of  speaking  to  me,  your 
attitude  of  a  schoolmistress,  everything.  How  ingen- 
uous I  have  been  not  to  perceive  it  before !" 

"Well,"  said  Audrey  firmly.  "You  are  wrong.  It 
is  absolutely  untrue  that  I  have  ever  paid  a  penny,  or 
ever  shall,  to  any  agent  on  your  behalf.  Do  you 
hear  ?  Why  should  I,  indeed !  And  now  what  have 
you  to  reply.''" 

She  was  aware  of  not  the  slightest  remorse  for  this 
enormous  and  unqualified  lie.  Nay,  she  held  it  was  not 
a  lie,  because  Musa  deserved  to  hear  it.  Strange  logic, 
but  her  logic !  And  she  was  much  uplifted  and  en- 
fevered,  and  grandly  careless  of  all  consequences. 

"You  are  a  woman,"  said  Musa,  curtly  and  obsti- 
JQately. 

"That,  at  any  rate,  is  true." 

"Therefore  I  cannot  treat  you  as  a  man." 

"Please  do,"  she  said,  rising. 

"No.  If  you  were  a  man  I  should  call  you  out." 
And  Musa  rose  also.  "And  I  should  be  right.  As 
you  are  a  woman  I  have  told  you  the  truth,  and  I  can 
do  no  more.  I  shall  not  characterise  your  denial.  I 
have  no  taste  for  recrimination.  Besides,  in  such  a 
game,  no  man  can  be  the  equal  of  a  woman.  But 
I  maintain  what  I  have  said,  and  I  affirm  that  I  know 


STRANGE  RESULT  OF  A  QUARREL  411 

it  to  be  true,  and  that  there  is  no  excuse  for  your 
conduct.  And  so  I  respectfully  take  leave."  He 
moved  towards  the  door  and  then  stopped.  "There 
never  had  been  any  excuse  for  your  conduct  to  me," 
he  added.  "It  has  always  been  the  conduct  of  a  rich 
and  capricious  woman  who  amused  herself  by  patron- 
ising a  poor  artist " 

"You  may  be  interested  to  know,"  she  said  fiercely, 
"that  I  am  no  longer  rich.  Last  night  I  heard  that 
my  fortune  is  gone.  If  I  have  amused  myself,  that 
may  amuse  you." 

"It  does  amuse  me,"  he  retorted  grimly  and  more 
loudly.  "I  wish  that  you  had  never  possessed  a  sou. 
For  then  I  might  have  been  spared  many  mournful 
hours.  All  would  have  been  different.  Yes !  From 
three  days  ago  when  I  saw  you  walking  intimately  in 
the  Tuileries  Gardens  with  the  unspeakable  Gilman — 
right  back  to  last  year  when  you  first,  from  caprice, 
did  your  best  to  make  me  love  you, — did  it  deliber- 
ately, so  that  all  the  Quarter  could  see !" 

In  a  furious  temper  Audrey  rushed  past  Musa  to 
the  door,  and  stood  with  her  back  to  it,  palpitating. 
She  vaguely  recalled  a  similar  movement  of  hers  long 
ago,  and  the  slightly  comic  figure  of  Mr.  Foulger  flitted 
through  her  memory. 

"You  shall  apologise  for  that!  You  shall  apologise 
before  you  leave  this  room !"  she  exploded.  Her  chin 
was  aloft  and  her  mouth  remained  open.  "I  say  you 
shall  apologise  for  that  monstrous  untruth !" 

He  approached  her,  uttering  not  a  word.  She  was 
quite  ready  to  kill  him.  She  had  no  fear  of  anything 
whatever.  Not  once  since  his  arrival  had  she  given  one 
thought  to  the  imminent  advent  of  Mr.  Gilman. 

She  said  to  herself,  watching  Musa  intently : 

"Yes,  he  shall  apologise.     It  is  shameful,  what  he 


412  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

says.     It's  worse  than  horrid.     I  am  as  strong  as  he 


is." 


» 


Musa  dropped  his  hat,  stick,  and  gloves.  The  hat, 
being  English  and  hard,  bounced  on  the  carpet.  Then 
he  put  his  trembling  arms  around  her  waist,  and  his 
trembling  lips  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  hers. 

She  thought,  very  puzzled: 

"What  is  happening?  This  is  all  wrong.  I  am  fu- 
rious with  him!  I  will  never  speak  to  him  again! 
What  is  he  doing?  This  is  all  wrong.  I  must  stop  it. 
I'm  saying  nothing  to  him  about  my  career,  and  my 
independence,  and  how  horrid  it  is  to  be  the  wife  of  a 
genius,  and  all  that.   ...   I  must  stop  it.' 

But  she  had  no  voUtion  to  stop  it. 

She  thought: 

"Am  I  fainting?" 


It  was  upon  this  scene  that  Mr.  Oilman  intruded. 
Mr.  Gilman  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Perhaps 
the  thought  in  his  mind  was  that  if  they  added  their 
ages  together  they  could  not  equal  his  age.  Perhaps 
it  was  not.  He  continued  to  look  from  one  to  the 
other,  and  this  needed  some  ocular  effort,  for  they 
were  as  far  apart  as  two  persons  in  such  a  situation 
usually  get  when  they  are  surprised.  Then  he  caught 
sight  of  the  hat,  stick,  and  gloves  on  the  floor. 

"I've  been  expecting  you  for  a  long  time,"  said 
Audrey,  with  that  miraculous  bland  tranquilhty  of 
which  young  girls  alone  have  the  secret  when  the  con- 
ventions are  imperilled.  "I  was  just  going  to  order 
tea." 

Mr.  Gilman  hesitated  and  then  rephed: 

"How  kind  of  you !     But  please  don't  order  tea  for 


STRANGE  RESULT  OF  A  QUARREL  413 

me.  The — er — fact  is,  I  have  been  unexpectedly  called 
away,  and  I  only  called  to  explain  that — er — I  could 
not  call."  After  all,  he  was  a  man  of  some  expe- 
rience. 

She  let  him  go.  His  demeanour  to  Musa,  like  Musa's 
to  him,  was  a  marvel  of  high  courtesy. 

"Musa,"  said  Audrey,  with  an  intimidated,  defiant 
proud  smile,  when  the  door  had  shut  on  Mr.  Oilman, 
"I  am  still  frightfully  angry  with  you.  If  we  stay 
here  I  shall  suffocate.  Let  us  go  out  for  a  walk.  Be- 
sides, other  people  might  call." 

Simultaneously  there  was  another  ring.  It  was  a 
cable.     She  read: 

"Sold  Zacatecas  at  an  average  of  six  and  a  quarter 
dollars  three  weeks  ago.  Wrote  you  at  length  to 
Wimereux.     Writing  again  as  to  new  investments. 

"FOULGEU." 

"This  comes  of  having  no  fixed  address,"  she  said, 
throwing  the  blue  cablegram  carelessly  down  in  front 
of  Musa.  "I'm  not  quite  ruined,  after  all.  But  I 
might  have  known — with  Mr.  Foulger."  Then  she  ex- 
plained. 

"I  wish "  he  began. 

"No,  you  don't,"  she  stopped  him.  "So  you  needn't 
start  on  that  line.  You  are  brilHant  at  figures.  At 
least  I  long  since  suspected  you  were.  How  much  is 
180,000  times  six  and  a  quarter."^" 

Notwithstanding  his  brilliance,  it  took  two  pencils, 
two  heads,  and  one  piece  of  paper  to  solve  the  prob- 
lem. They  were  not  quite  certain,  but  the  answer 
seemed  to  be  £225,000  in  English  money. 

"We  cannot  starve,"  said  Audrey,  and  then  paused. 
.  .  .  "Musa,  are  we  friends.'^     We  shall  quarrel  hor- 


414  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

ribly.     Do  you  know,  I  never  knew  that  proposals  of 
marriage  were  made  like  that!" 

"I  have  not  told  you  one  thing,"  said  Musa.  "I 
am  going  to  play  in  Germany,  instead  of  further  con- 
certs in  Paris.     It  is  arranged." 

"Not  in  Germany,"  she  pleaded,  thinking  of  Ziegler. 

"Yes,  in  Germany,"  said  Musa  masterfully.  *'I 
have  a  reputation  to  make.  It  is  the  agent  who  has 
suggested  it." 

"But  the  concerts  in  London?" 

"You  are  English.     I  wish  not  to  wound  you." 

When  Audrey  stood  up  again,  she  had  to  look  at 
the  floor  in  order  to  make  sure  that  it  was  there.  Once 
she  had  tasted  absinthe.  She  had  had  to  take  the  same 
precaution  then. 

"Stop!  I  entreat  thee!"  said  Musa  suddenly,  just 
as,  all  arrayed  in  her  finery,  she  was  opening  the  door 
for  the  walk. 

"What  is  it.?" 

He  kissed  her,  and  with  his  lips  almost  on  hers  he 
murmured : 

"Thou  shalt  not  go  out  without  avowing.  And  if 
thou  art  angry — well,  I  adore  thy  anger.  The  con- 
certs were  .   .  .  thy  enterprise.?     I  guessed  well?" 

"You  see,"  she  replied  hke  a  shot,  "you  weren't  sure, 
although  you  pretended  you  were." 

In  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  and  in  the  resplendent  Champs 
Elysees  they  passed  column  after  column  of  enter- 
tainment posters.  But  the  name  of  Musa  had  been 
mysteriously  removed  from  aU  of  them. 


CHAPTER  XL VI 


AN    EPILOGUE 


Audrey  ■was  walking  along  Piccadilly  when  she  over- 
took Miss  Ingate,  who  had  been  arrested  by  a  shop- 
window,  the  window  of  one  of  the  shops  recently  in- 
cluded in  the  vast  edifice  of  the  Hotel  Majestic. 

Miss  Ingate  gave  a  little  squeal  of  surprise.  The 
two  kissed  very  heartily  in  the  street,  which  was  full 
of  spring  and  of  the  posters  of  evening  papers  bear- 
ing melodramatic  tidings  of  the  latest  nocturnal  de- 
velopment of  the  terrible  suiFragette  campaign. 

"You  said  eleven,  Audrey.     It  isn't  eleven  yet." 

"Well,  I'm  behind  time.  I  meant  to  be  all  spruced 
up  and  receive  you  in  state  at  the  hotel.  But  the 
boat  was  three  hours  late  at  Harwich.  I  jumped  into 
a  cab  at  Liverpool  Street,  but  I  got  out  at  Piccadilly 
Circus  because  the  streets  looked  so  fine  and  I  felt  I 
really  must  walk  a  bit." 

"And  where's  your  husband.'"' 

"He's  at  Liverpool  Street  trying  to  look  after  the 
luggage.  He  lost  some  of  it  at  Hamburg.  He  likes 
looking  after  luggage,  so  I  just  left  him  at  it." 

Miss  Ingate's  lower  lip  dropped  at  the  corners. 

"You've  had  a  tiff." 

"Winnie,  we  haven't." 

"Did  you  go  to  all  his  concerts?" 

"All.  I  heard  all  his  practising,  and  I  sat  in  the 
stalls  at  all  his  concerts.  Quite  contrary  to  my  prin- 
ciples,  of    course.      But,   Winnie,    it's    very   queer,    I 

415 


416  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

wanted  to  do  it.  So  naturally  I  did  it.  We've  never 
been  apart — until  now." 

"And  it's  not  exaggerated,  what  you've  written  me 
about  his  success?" 

"Not  a  bit.  I've  been  most  careful  not  to  exagger- 
ate. In  fact  I've  tried  to  be  gloomy.  No  use,  how- 
ever! It  was  a  triumph.  .  .  .  And  how's  all  this  busi- 
ness?" Audrey  demanded,  in  a  new  key,  indicating  an 
orange-tinted  newspaper  bill  that  was  being  flaunted 
in  front  of  her. 

"Oh!  I  believe  it's  dreadful.  Of  course  you  know 
Rosamund's  in  prison.  But  they'll  have  to  let  her  out 
soon.  Jane  Foley — she  still  calls  herself  Foley — 
hasn't  been  caught.  And  that's  funny.  I  doubled  my 
subscription.  We  had  to,  you  see.  But  that's  all 
I've  done.  They  don't  have  processions  and  things  now, 
and  barrel  organs  are  quite  out  of  fashion.  What  with 
that,  and  my  rheumatism!  ...  I  used  to  think  I 
should  live  to  vote  myself.  I  feel  I  shan't  now.  So 
I've  gone  back  into  water-colours.  They're  very  sooth- 
ing, if  you  let  the  paper  dry  after  each  wash  and  don't 
take  them  seriously.  .  .  .  Now,  I'm  a  very  common- 
sense  woman,  Audrey,  as  you  must  have  noticed,  and 
I'm  not  subject  to  fancies.  Will  you  just  look  at  the 
girl  on  the  left  hand  in  this  window  here,  and  tell  me 
whether  I'm  dreaming  or  not?" 

Miss  Ingate  indicated  the  shop  window  which  had 
arrested  her.  The  establishment  was  that  of  a  hair- 
specialist,  and  the  window  was  mainly  occupied  by  two 
girls  who  sat  in  armchairs  with  their  backs  to  the 
glass,  and  all  their  magnificent  hair  spread  out  at 
length  over  the  backs  of  the  chairs  for  the  inspection 
of  the  public;  the  implication  being  that  the  magnifi- 
cent hair  was  due  to  the  specific  of  the  hair-specialist. 
Passers-by  continually   stopped  to  gaze   at  the  spec- 


AN  EPILOGUE  417 

tacle,  but  they  never  stopped  long,  because  the  spec- 
tacle was  monotonous. 

"Well,  what  about  her?"  said  Audrey,  staring. 

"Isn't  it  Lady  Southminster?" 

"Good  heavens !"  Audrey's  mind  went  back  to  the 
Channel  packet  and  the  rain-squall  and  the  scenes  on 
the  Paris  train.  "So  it  is !  Whatever  can  have  hap- 
pened to  her.?    Let's  go  in." 

And  in  they  went,  Audrey  leading,  and  demanding 
at  once  a  bottle  of  the  specific ;  Audrey  had  scarcely 
spoken  when  the  left-hand  girl  in  the  window,  who  of 
course  from  her  vantage  had  a  full  view  of  the  shop, 
screamed  lightly  and  jumped  down  from  the  window. 

"Don't  give  me  away !"  she  whispered  appcalingly  in 
Audrey's  ear.  The  next  moment,  not  heeding  the  ex- 
citement of  the  shop-manager,  she  had  drawn  Audrey 
and  Miss  Ingate  tlirough  another  door  which  led  into 
the  entrance-hall  of  the  Majestic  Hotel.  The  shop  was 
thus  contrived  to  catch  two  publics  at  once. 

"If  they  knew  I  was  Lady  Southminster  in  there," 
said  Lady  Southminster  in  a  feverish  murmur, — she 
seemed  not  averse  to  the  sensation  caused  by  her  hair 
in  the  twilight  of  the  hotel — "I  expect  I  should  lose 
my  place,  and  I  don't  want  to  lose  it.  He^YL  be  coming 
by  presently,  and  he'll  see  me,  and  it'll  be  a  lesson  to 
him.  We're  always  together.  Race-meetings,  dances, 
golf,  restaurants,  bridge.  Twenty-four  hours  every 
day.  He  won't  lose  sight  of  me.  He's  that  fond  of 
me,  you  know.  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I'd  as  lief  be  in 
prison, — only  I'm  that  fond  of  him,  you  know.  But  I 
was  so  homesick,  and  I  felt  if  I  didn't  have  a  change  I 
should  burst.  This  is  Constantinopoulos's  old  shop, 
you  know,  where  I  used  to  make  cigarettes  in  the  win- 
dow. He's  dead,  Constantinopoulos  is.  I  don't  know 
what  he^d  have  said  to  hair-restorers.     I  asked  for  the 


418  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

place,  and  T  showed  'em  my  hair,  and  I  got  It.  And 
me  sitting  there — it's  quite  like  old  times.  Only  before, 
you  know,  I  used  to  have  my  face  to  the  street.  I  don't 
know  which  I  like  best.  But  anyhow  you  can  see  my 
profile  from  the  side-window.  And  he  will.  He  always 
looks  at  that  sort  of  thing.  He'll  be  furious.  But  it 
will  do  him  no  end  of  good.  Well,  good-bye.  But 
come  back  in  and  buy  a  bottle,  or  I  shall  be  let  in  for 
a  shindy.     In  fact  you  might  buy  two  bottles." 

"So  that'?  love !"  said  Audrey,  when  the  transaction 
was  over  and  they  were  in  the  entrance-hall  again. 

"No,"  said  Miss  Ingate.  "That's  marriage.  And 
don't  you  forget  it.   .   .  .  Hallo,  Tommy !" 

"You'd  better  not  let  Mr.  Gilman  hear  me  called 
Tommy  in  this  hotel,"  laughed  Miss  Thompkins,  who 
was  attired  with  an  unusual  richness,  as  she  advanced 
towards  Miss  Ingate  and  Audrey.  "And  what  are  you 
doing  here?"  she  questioned  Audrey. 

"I'm  staying  here,"  said  Audrey.  *'But  I've  only 
just  arrived.  I'm  advance  agent  for  my  husband. 
How  are  you.''  And  what  are  you  doing  here.f*  I 
thought  you  hated  London." 

"I  came  the  day  before  yesterday,"  Tommy  replied. 
"And  I'm  very  fit.  You  see,  Mr.  Gilman  preferred  us 
to  be  married  in  London.  And  I'd  no  objection.  So 
here  I  am.  The  wedding's  to-morrow.  You  aren't 
very  startled,  are  you?    Had  you  heard?" 

"Well,"  said  Audrey,  "not  what  you'd  call  'heard.' 
But  I'd  a  sort  of  a  kind  of  a!" 

"You  come  right  over  here,  young  woman." 

"But  I  want  to  get  my  number." 

"You  come  right  over  here  right  now,"  Tommy  in- 
sisted. And  in  another  corner  of  the  entrance-hall  she 
spoke  thus,  and  there  was  both  seriousness  and  fun 
in  her  voice :     "Don't  you  run  away  with  the  idea  that 


AN  EPILOGUE  419* 

I'm  taking  5'our  leavings,  young  woman.  Because  I'm 
not.  We  all  knew  you'd  lost  your  head  about  Musa, 
and  it  was  quite  right  of  you.  But  you  never  had  a 
chance  with  Ernest,  though  you  thought  you  had,  after 
I'd  met  him.  Admit  I'm  much  better  suited  for  him 
than  you'd  have  been.  I'd  only  one  difficulty,  and  that 
was  the  nice  boy  Price,  who  wanted  to  drown  himself 
for  my  beautiful  freckled  face.  That's  all.  Now  you 
can  go  and  get  your  number." 

The  incident  might  not  have  ended  there  had  not 
Madame  Piriac  appeared  in  the  entrance-hall  out  of 
the  interior  of  the  hotel. 

"He  exacted  my  coming,"  said  Madame  Piriac  pri- 
vately to  Audrey.  "You  know  how  he  is  strange.  He 
asks  for  a  quiet  wedding,  but  at  the  same  time  it  must 
be  all  that  is  most  correct.  There  are  things,  he  says, 
which  demand  a  woman.  ...  I  know  four  times  noth- 
ing of  the  English  etiquette.  I  have  abandoned  my 
husband.  And  here  I  am.  Voila!  Listen.  She  has 
great  skill  with  him,  cette  Tommy.  Nevertheless  I  have 
the  intention  to  counsel  her  about  her  complexion. 
Impossible  to  keep  any  man  with  a  complexion  like 
hers !" 

They  saw  Mr.  Gilman  himself  enter  the  hotel.  He 
was  very  nervous  and  very  important.  As  soon  as 
he  caught  sight  of  Miss  Thompkins  he  said  to  the 
doorkeeper : 

"Tell  my  chauffeur  to  wait." 

He  was  punctiliously  attentive  to  Miss  Thompkins, 
and  held  her  hand  for  two  seconds  after  he  had  prac- 
tically finished  with  it. 

"Are  you  ready,  dear.?"  he  said.  "You'll  be  sorry 
to  hear  that  my  liver  is  all  wrong  again.  I  knew  it 
was  because  I  slept  so  heavily." 


420  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

These  words  were  distinctly  heard  by  Audrey  her- 
self. 

"I  think  I'll  slip  upstairs  now,"  she  murmured  to 
Madame  Piriac.  And  vanished,  before  Mr.  Oilman 
had  observed  her  presence. 

She  thought: 

"How  he  has  aged!" 

Scarcely  ten  minutes  later,  when  Audrey  was  up- 
stairs in  her  sitting-room,  waiting  idly  for  the  luggage 
and  her  husband  to  arrive,  and  thinking  upon  the 
case  of  Lady  Southminster,  the  telephone-bell  rang 
out  startlingly. 

"Mr.  Shinner  to  see  you." 

"Mr.  Shinner.''  Oh!  Mr.  Shinner.  Send  him  up, 
please." 

This  Mr.  Shinner  was  the  concert-agent  with  con- 
nections in  Paris  whom  Audrey  had  first  consulted  in 
the  enterprise  of  launching  Musa  upon  the  French 
pubhc.  He  was  a  large,  dark  man,  black  moustached 
and  bearded,  with  heavy  limbs  and  features  and  an 
opaque,  pimpled  skin.  In  spite  of  these  characteristics, 
he  entered  the  room  soft-footed  as  a  fairy,  ingratiating 
as  a  dog  aware  of  his  own  iniquity,  reassuring  as  ap- 
plause. 

"Well,  Mr.  Shinner.  But  how  did  you  know  we 
were  here.?  As  a  matter  of  fact  we  aren't  here.  My 
husband  has  not  arrived  yet." 

"Madam,"  said  Mr.  Shinner,  "I  happened  to  hear 
that  you  had  telegraphed  for  rooms,  and  as  I  was  in 
the  neighbourhood  I  thought  I  would  venture  to  call." 

"But  who  told  you  we  had  telegraphed  for  rooms.''" 

"The  manager  is  a  good  friend  of  mine,  and  as  you 

are  now  famous Ah !  I  have  heard  all  about  the 

German  tour.  I  mean  I  have  read  about  it.  I  sub- 
scribe to  the  German  musical  papers.     One  must,  in 


AN  EPILOGUE  421 

my  profession.  Also  I  have  had  direct  news  from  my 
correspondents  in  Germany.  It  was  a  triumph  there, 
was  it  not?" 

"Yes,"  said  Audrey.  "After  Diisseldorf.  My  hus- 
band did  not  make  much  money " 

"That  will  not  trouble  you,"  Mr.  Shinner  smiled 
easily. 

"But  somebody  did — the  agents  did." 

"Perhaps  not  so  much  as  you  think.  Madam,  if  I 
may  say  so.  Perhaps  not  so  much  as  you  think.  And 
we  must  all  live — unfortunately.  Has  your  husband 
made  any  arrangements  yet  for  London  or  for  a 
provincial  tour.?  I  have  reason  to  think  that  the  sea- 
son will  be  particularly  brilliant.  And  I  can  now  offer 
advantages " 

"But,  Mr.  Shinner,  when  I  last  saw  you,  and  it  isn't 
so  very  long  ago,  you  told  me  that  my  husband  was 
not  a  concert-player,  which  was  exactly  what  I  had 
heard  in  Paris." 

"I  didn't  go  quite  so  far  as  that,  surely,  did  I.?" 
Mr.  Shinner  softly  insinuated.  He  might  have  been 
pouring  honey  from  his  mouth.  "Surely  I  didn't  say 
quite  that.f^  And  perhaps  I  had  been  too  much  influ- 
enced by  Paris." 

"Yes,  you  said  he  wasn't  a  concert-player  and  never 
would  be " 

"Don't  rub  it  in,  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Shinner  merrily. 
"Peccavi." 

"What's  that?" 

"Nothing,  nothing.  Madam,"  he  disclaimed. 

"And  you  said  there  were  far  too  many  violinists  on 
the  market,  and  that  it  was  useless  for  a  French  player 
to  offer  himself  to  the  London  musical  public.  And 
I  don't  know  what  you  didn't  say." 


422  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

"But  I  didn't  know  then  that  your  husband  would 
have  such  a  success  in  Germany." 

"What  difference  does  that  make?" 

"Madam,"  said  Mr.  Shinner,  "it  makes  every  differ- 
ence." 

"But  England  and  Germany  hate  each  other.  At 
least  they  despise  each  other.  And  what's  more,  nearly 
everybody  in  Germany  was  talking  about  going  to 
war  this  summer.  I  was  told  they  are  all  ready  to 
invade  England  after  they  have  taken  Paris  and  Calais. 
We  heard  it  everywhere." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  any  war,"  said  Mr. 
Shinner  with  tranquillity.  "But  I  do  know  that  the 
London  musical  public  depends  absolutely  on  Germany. 
The  only  first-class  instrumentalist  that  England  has 
ever  produced  had  no  success  here  until  he  went  to 
Germany  and  Germanised  his  name  and  himself  and 
announced  that  he  despised  England.  Then  he  came 
back,  and  he  has  caused  a  furore  ever  since.  So  far 
as  regards  London,  a  success  in  Karlsruhe,  Wiesbaden, 
Leipzig,  Diisseldorf,  and  so  on,  is  worth  far  more  than 
a  success  in  the  Queen's  Hall.  Indeed — can  you  get  a 
success  in  the  Queen's  Hall  without  a  success  in  these 
places  first.''  I  doubt  it.  Your  husband  now  has  Lon- 
don at  his  feet.  Not  Paris,  though  he  may  capture 
Paris  after  he  has  captured  London.  But  London  cer- 
tainly. He  cannot  find  a  better  agent  than  myself. 
All  artists  like  me,  because  I  understand.  You  see,  my 
mother  was  harpist  to  the  late  Queen." 

"But " 

"Your  husband  is  assuredly  a  genius,  madam !"  Mr. 
Shinner  stood  up  in  his  enthusiasm,  and  banged  his  left 
fist  with  his  right  palm. 

"Yes,  I  know  that,"  said  Audrey.  "But  you  are 
such  an  expensive  luxury." 


AN  EPILOGUE  423 

Mr.  Shinner  pushed  away  the  accusation  with  both 
hands.  "Madam,  madam,  I  shall  take  all  the  risks. 
I  should  not  dream,  now,  of  asking  for  a  cheque  on 
account.  On  the  contrary,  I  should  guarantee  a 
percentage  of  the  gross  receipts.  Perhaps  I  am  un- 
wise to  take  risks — I  daresay  I  am — but  I  could  not 
bear  to  see  your  husband  in  the  hands  of  another 
agent.     We  professional  men  have  our  feelings." 

"Don't  cry,  Mr.  Shinner,"  said  Audrey  impulsively. 
It  was  not  a  proper  remark  to  make,  but  the  sudden 
impetuous  entrance  of  Musa  himself,  carrying  his  vio- 
lin-case, eased  the  situation. 

"There  is  a  man  which  is  asking  for  you  outside  in 
the  corridor,"  said  Musa  to  his  wife.  "It  is  the  gar- 
dener, Aguilar,  I  think.  I  have  brought  all  the  lug- 
gage, not  excluding  that  which  was  lost  at  Hamburg." 
He  had  a  glorious  air,  and  was  probably  more  proud 
of  his  still  improving  English  and  of  his  ability  as  a 
courier  than  of  his  triumphs  on  the  fiddle.  "Ah !"  Mr. 
Shinner  was  bowing  before  him. 

"This  is  Mr.  Shinner,  the  agent,  my  love,"  said 
Audrey.  "I'll  leave  you  to  talk  to  him.  He  sees 
money  in  you." 

In  the  passage  the  authentic  Aguilar  stood  with 
Miss  Ingate. 

"Here's  Mr.  Aguilar,"  said  Miss  Ingate.  "I'm  just 
going  into  No.  37,  Madame  Piriac's  room.  Don't  you 
think  Mr.  Aguilar  looks  vehy  odd  in  London.''" 

"Good  morning,  Aguilar.  You  in  town  on  busi- 
ness ?" 

Aguilar  touched  his  forehead.  It  is  possible  that 
he  looked  very  odd  in  London,  but  he  was  wearing  a 
most  respectable  new  suit  of  clothes,  and  might  well 
have  passed  for  a  land-agent. 

"  'Mornin,  ma'am.      I   had   to   come  up   because  I 


424.  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

couldn't  get  delivery  of  those  wall-papers  you  chose. 
Otherwise  all  the  repairs  and  alterations  are  going  on 
as  well  as  could  be  expected." 

"And  how  is  your  wife,  Aguilar?" 

"She's  nicely,  thank  ye,  ma'am.  I  pointed  out  to 
the  foreman  that  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  make  the 
dining-room  door  open  the  other  way  as  the  architect 
suggested.  But  he  would  do  it.  However,  I've  told 
you,  ma'am.  It'll  only  have  to  be  altered  back.  Per- 
haps I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I  took  the  liberty  of 
taking  a  fortnight's  holiday,  ma'am.  It's  the  only 
holiday  I  ever  did  take,  except  the  annual  day  off 
for  the  Colchester  Rose  Show,  which  is  perhaps  more  a 
matter  of  business  with  a  head-gardener  than  a  holi- 
day, as  ye  might  say.  My  wife  wanted  me  in  Lon- 
don." 

"She's  not  caught  yet." 

"No'm.  And  I  don't  think  as  she  will  be,  not  with 
me  about.  I  never  did  allow  myself  to  be  bossed  by 
police,  and  I  always  been  too  much  for  'em.  And  as 
I'm  on  the  matter,  ma'am,  I  should  like  to  give  you 
notice  as  soon  as  it's  convenient.  I  wouldn't  leave 
on  any  account  till  that  foreman's  off  the  place ;  he's 
no  better  than  a  fool.  But  as  soon  afterwards  as 
you  like." 

"Certainly,  Aguilar.  I  was  quite  expecting  it. 
Where  are  you  going  to  live?" 

"Well,  ma'am,  I've  got  hold  of  a  little  poultry  run 
business  in  the  north  of  London.     It'll  be  handy  for 

Holloway  in  case And   Jane   asked   me   to   give 

you  this  letter,  ma'am.     I  see  her  this  morning." 

Audrey  read  the  note.  Very  short,  it  was  signed 
"Jane"  and  "Nick,"  and  dated  from  a  house  in  Fitz- 
roy  Street.     It  caused  acute  excitement  in  Audrey. 

"I  shall  come  at  once,"  said  she. 


AN  EPILOGUE  425 

Getting  rid  of  Aguilar,  she  knocked  at  the  door  of 
No.  37. 

"Read  that,"  she  ordered  Miss  Ingate  and  Madame 
Piriac,  giving  them  the  note  jointly. 

"And  are  you  going?"  said  Miss  Ingate,  nervous  and 
impressed. 

"Of  course,"  Audrey  answered.  "Don't  they  ask 
me  to  go  at  once?  I  meant  to  write  to  my  cousins  at 
Woodbridge  and  my  uncles  in  the  colonies,  and  tell 
them  all  that  I  was  settling  down  at  last.  And  I  meant 
to  look  at  those  new  flats  in  Park  Lane  with  Musa. 
But  I  shall  have  to  leave  all  that  for  the  present. 
Also   m}'^   lunch." 

"But,  darling,"  put  in  Madame  Piriac,  who  had  been 
standing  before  the  dressing-table  trying  on  a  hat. 
"But,  darling,  it  is  very  serious,  this  matter.  What 
about  your  husband?" 

"He'll  keep,"  said  Audrey.  "He's  had  his  turn.  I 
must  have  mine  now.  I  haven't  had  a  day  off  from 
being  a  wife  for  ever  so  long.  And  it's  a  little  enervat- 
ing, you  know.     It  spoils  you  for  the  fresh  air." 

"I  imagined  to  myself  that  you  two  were  happy  in  an 
ideal  fashion,"  murmured  Madame  Piriac. 

"So  we  are !"  said  Audrey.  "Though  a  certain  cool- 
ness did  arise  over  the  luggage  this  morning.  But  I 
don't  want  to  be  ideally  happy  all  the  time.  And  I 
won't  be.  I  want — I  want  all  the  sensations  there  are ; 
and  I  want  to  be  everything.  And  I  can  be.  Musa 
understands." 

"If  he  does,"  said  Miss  Ingate,  "he'll  be  the  first  hus- 
band that  ever  did."     Her  lips  were  sardonic. 

"Well,  of  course,"  said  Audrey  nonchalantly,  "he  is. 
Didn't  you  know  that?  .  .  .  And  didn't  you  tell  me 
not  to  forget  Lady  Southminster?" 

"Did  I?"  said  Miss  Ingate. 


426  THE  LION'S  SHARE 

Audrey  heard  voices  In  the  corridor.  Musa  was 
parting  from  a  subservient  Shinner.  Also  the  luggage 
was  bumping  along  the  carpet.  She  called  her  hus- 
band into  No.  37  and  kissed  him  rather  violently  in 
front  of  Madame  Pir;ac  and  Miss  Ingate,  and  showed 
him  the  note.     Then  she  whispered  to  him,  smiling. 

"What's  that  you're  whispering.?"  Miss  Ingate 
archly  demanded. 

"Nothing.  I  was  only  asking  him  to  come  and  help 
me  to  open  my  big  trunk.  I  want  something  out  of  it. 
Au  revoir,  you  two." 

"What  do  you  think  of  It  all,  Madame  Piriac?"  Miss 
Ingate  enquired  when  the  pair  were  alone. 

"'All  the  sensations  there  are!'  'Everything!'" 
Madame  Piriac  repeated  Audrey's  phrases.  "One  is 
forced  to  conclude  that  she  has  an  appetite  for  life." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Ingate,  "she  wants  the  lion's  share 
of  it,  that's  what  she  wants.  No  mistake.  But  of 
course  she's  young." 

"I  was  never  young  like  that." 

"Neither  was  I!  Neither  was  I!"  Miss  Ingate  as- 
severated. "But  something  vchy,  vehy  strange  has 
come  over  the  world,  if  you  ask  me." 


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